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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
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http://www.archive.org/details/americanpoetryOOboyn 



AMERICAN POETRY 



EDITED BY 

PERCY H. BOYNTON 

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 
AUTHOR OF " LONDON IN ENGLISH LITERATURE " 



WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF HOWARD M. j;ONES, 
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR, THE UNIVERSITY OF 
MONTANA, AND GEORGE W. SHERBURN AND 
FRANK M. WEBSTER, THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1918 



0< 



/^6^ ..fisf 







Copyright, 1918, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



Published April, 1918 



APR 20 !9I8 




IXS' 



■f^^ ^ ,^ * i\ 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The poems by William Cullen Bryant are used 
by permission of D. Appleton & Company. 

The selections from the writings of Ralph Waldo 
Emerson, John Greenleaf Whittier, Henry Wads- 
worth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James 
Russell Lowell and WilUam Vaughn Moody are 
used by permission of and by arrangement with 
Houghton M ifflin Company, authorized publishers 
of their works. 

The poems by Paul Hamilton Hayne are used 
by permission of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 

The poems of Sidney Lanier are reprinted from 
"The Poems of Sidney Lanier," published by 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 

The poems by Walt Whitman are used by per- 
mission of Doubleday, Page & Co., authorized 
publishers of his works. 

The poems of Joaquin Miller are used by per- 
mission of the Harr Wagner PubUshing Co., San 
Francisco, Cal., publishers of the complete works 
of Joaquin Miller. 

The poems by Richard Hovey, "Spring," "Love 
in the Winds," "The Call of the Bugles," "Un- 
manifest Destiny," "After Business Hours," "From 
'Taliesin: A Masque' " and "Faith and Fate," 
are used by permission of Duffield & Company; 
and the poems "Comrades," "At the End of Day" 
and "The Wander Lovers" by permission of Small, 
Maynard & Company. 



PREFACE 

This book has been prepared for the purpose of encouraging the intelligent study 
of the history of American literature by assembling representative text of the poetry 
and adequate critical machinery to accompany it. 

In making the selections two main points have been kept in mind: First, that, 
taken as a whole, the poems should be observable as an index both to the progress of 
American poetry and to the progressions of American thought; second, that they 
should fairly represent the chief characteristics of the authors. In order to have them 
hit this latter mark, it was necessary that they be ample enough to furnish material 
for real study of the successive poets, and this fulness limited the number of units to 
twenty- nine, twenty-five poets and four time-groups: songs, epigrams and elegies of 
the seventeenth century, almanac verse of the eighteenth, and the lyrics of the Revolu- 
tionary and Civil Wars not included in the works of the more important poets. In- 
surmountable copyright restrictions will account for the laci. of a few late products 
by four of the best known poets, and for the total omission of one or two others who 
could not be adequately represented. These omissions, however, have only slightly 
disturbed the balance of the text. 

The material, aside from the text, has been prepared with the aim of assisting the 
student to use his mind rather than his memory, and of suggesting lines of study for 
him to follow. The criticisms are, therefore, not offered as dogmatic finalities, but as 
"aids to reflection." Wherever they can be construed as representing the debatable 
opinions of the authors, they will be of more service to the students who arrive at in- 
telligent dissent from them than to those who mark and learn them with unthinking 
docility. Pains have been taken to indicate as far as possible the original places of 
publication in various types of periodicals, from newspapers to annuals, and a separate 
index of these data has been prepared. The importance of this information, and the 
deductions that can be drawn from it, have thus far been almost wholly overlooked. 
The editor will be grateful for corrections or- additions. 

Assistance of the greatest value has been rendered by Mr. Howard M. Jones, in the 
writing of the criticisms on Emerson, Poe, Whit tier, Lowell, Longfellow and Lanier; 
by Mr. George Sherburn, in the supply of the text and criticism on the hitherto un- 
noticed poem by the eighteenth century Lewis; by Mr. Frank M. Webster, in the 
writing of the criticism on Anne Bradstreet, and in extensive work on the notes; and 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

by Miss Agnes L. Pickering, in help in preparation of the manuscript. Among many 
librarians who have been liberal in their courtesies, especial acknowledgment is due 
Mr. J. S. Schwab, Yale University, in connection with the use of the Aldis collection; 
to Mr. H. L. Koopman, Brown University, in connection with the use of the Harris 
collection, and to Mr. W. G. Forsythe, of the Boston Public Library, in connection 
with use of the haven for students over which he presides in the Barton library room. 

Percy H. Boynton. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PART I— POEMS 

ANNE BRADSTREET 

To Her Most Honoured Father 1 

Queen Elizabeth 1 

The Prologue 3 

Contemplations 4 

The Author to Her Book 8 

Letters to Her Husband 8 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY SONGS, 
EPIGRAMS AND ELEGIES 

Song Thomas Morton 11 

From "The Simple Cobler of Aggawam" 

Nathaniel Ward 11 

On "The Tenth Muse " Nathaniel Ward 13 

Upon Mrs. Anna Bradstreet, Her Poems, &c. 

J. Rogers 13 

Acrostic on William Paddy 15 

Upon the Author B. W. 15 
A Funeral Elegy Upon the Death of the Truly 
Reverend, Mr. John Cotton, Late Teacher 
of the Church of Christ at Boston, in New- 
England John Norton 15 

Threnodia on Samuel Stone 

Edward Bulkley (?) 16 

Bacon's Epitaph, Made by His Man 17 

MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH 

From The Day of Doom 18 

Sentence and Torment of the Condemned 19 

The Saints Ascend to Heaven 21 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 21 

r R. LEWIS 

A Journey from Patapsco in Maryland to An- 
napolis, April 4, 1730 24 

THE ALMANACKS OF NATHANIEL AMES 

From the Almanack for 1733 30 

From the Almanack for 1738 31 

From the Almanack for 1743 32 

From the Almanack for 1751 33 

FRANCIS HOPKINSON 

Ode on Music 35 

Song 35 

Advice to Amanda 35 

A Morning Hymn 36 

Verses 36 



Louisbourg 37 

To Celia 38 

The Wasp 39 

Date Obolura Bellesario 39 

The Battle of the Kegs 40 

The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat 41 

My Generous Heart Disdains 42 

JOHN TRUMBULL 

From The Progress of Dulness, Part III 43 

Lines Addressed to Messrs. Dwight and Bar- 
low 49 

From M'Fingal, Canto IH, The Liberty Pole 50 

POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 

From "Braddock's Fate and an Encitement 

to Revenge " 58 

To Arms, To Arms ! My Jolly Grenadiers. . . 58 
How Stands the Glass Around? 

General Wolfe (?) 59 

The Death of Wolfe (Anon.) 59 

Sure Never Was Picture Drawn More to the 

Life Virginia Gazette 60 

Come Join Hand in Hand, Brave Americans 

All John Dickinson (?) 61 

A Tory Parody of the Above . . Boston Gazette 62 
The Parody Parodized or The Massachusetts 

Song of Liberty 62 

The Liberty Pole Satirized (Anon.) 63 

A Song Joseph Stansbury 64 

The Boston Tea Party _(Anon.) 64 

A Lady's Adieu to Her Tea-Table 65 

Virginia Banishing Tea 65 

When Good Queen Elizabeth Governed the 

Realm Joseph Stansbury 65 

Liberty Tree Thomas Paine 66 

A Song Pennsylvania Journal 66 

The Ballad of Nathan Hale 67 

Independence Freeman's Journal 68 

A Ballad Freeman's Journal 68 

Song Jonathan Odell 69 

The Congress Towne's Evening Post 70 

Bold Hawthorne 70 

A Birthday Song Jonathan Odell 71 

The Fate of John Burgoyne 72 

A Pastoral Song Joseph Stansbury 72 

The Epilogue A Broadside 73 

Yankee Doodle 73 

Yankee Doodle's Expedition to Rhode Island 

Rivington's Gazette 74 

A Fable David Matthews (?) 75 

A Cry to Battle J. M. Sewall 75 

War and Washington J. M. Sewall 76 

The Old Year and the New: A Prophecy 

J. M. Sewall 77 



CONTENTS 



The Present Age Freeman's Journal 77 

The Congratulation Jonathan Odell 78 

The American Times 

Camillo Querno (Jonathan Odell) SI 

Ode for the New Year Jonathan Odell 83 

Lords of the Main Joseph Stansbury 84 

A Pasquinade Joseph Stansbury 85 

Volunteer Boys Henry Archer 85 

Song, for a Venison Dinner. .Joseph Stansbury 86 

The Dance 86 

Cornwallis Burgoyned 87 

Let Us Be Happy as Long as We Can 

Joseph Stansbury 87 

PHILIP FRENEAU 

The Power of Fancy 89 

On Retirement 90 

A Political Litany 90 

American Liberty 91 

The Midnight Consultation 92 

America Independent 94 

George the Third's Soliloquy 95 

The British Prison Ship, Canto II 97 

On the Memorable Victory of Paul Jones 99 

Arnold's Departure 101 

Prologue to a Theatrical Entertainment in 

Philadelphia 101 

Epigram 102 

A Prophecy 102 

The Political Balance 103 

A News-Man's Address 106 

A Newsman's' Address 106 

To Sir Toby 107 

The Progress of Balloons 108 

Literary Importation 109 

The Wild Honey Suckle 110 

May to April 110 

The Indian Burying Ground 110 

On the Prospect of a Revolution in France. . . Ill 

Congress Hall, N. Y 112 

On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin 112 

The American Soldier 112 

To the Public 113 

Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-One 113 

To My Book 114 

Epistle 114 

Ode 115 

To the Americans of the United States 115 

The Political Weather-Cock 115 

On a Honey Bee 116 

On the British Commercial Depredations 116 

To a Caty-Did 117 

TIMOTHY DWIGHT 

From Greenfield Hill, Part IV, The Destruction 

of the Pequods 118 

From Greenfield Hill, Part VI, The Farmer's 

Advice to the Villagers 121 

Columbia 123 

Love to the Church 124 

JOEL BARLOW 

From The Vision of Columbus 125 

The Hasty Pudding 130 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

The American Flag 136 

To a Friend 136 

The Culprit Fay 139 

FROM THE "CROAKER PAPERS" BY 
DRAKE AND HALLECK 

To Mr. Simpson 147 

To Croaker, Junior 147 

The National Painting 148 

The Man Who Frets at Worldly Strife 148 

To E. Simpson, Esq 149 

To Captain Seaman Weeks 149 

Abstract of the Surgeon-General's Report. ... 150 

To XXXX, Esquire 150 

To Mrs. Barnes 151 

An Address 152 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 

From Fanny 154 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 158 

Marco Bozzaris 158 

The Iron Grays 159 

Connecticut 160 

Red Jacket 165 

The Field of the Grounded Arms 167 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 169 

To a Waterfowl 1 70 

O Fairest of the Rural Maids 170 

Summer Wind 171 

Monument Mountain 171 

Hymn to the North Star 173 

A Forest Hymn 174 

Hymn to Death 176 

"I| Broke the Spell That Held Me Long" 179 

"I Cannot Forget with What Fervid Devo- 
tion" 179 

June 179 

A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal 180 

The Past 182 

The Twenty-Second of December 182 

The Evening Wind 183 

Hymn of the City 183 

Song of Marion's Men 184 

To the Fringed Gentian 184 

Seventy-Six 185 

The Antiquity of Freedom 186 

"O Mother of a Mighty Race" 187 

Robert of Lincoln 187 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree 188 

Our Country's Call 189 

The Song of the Sower 189 

The Poet 191 

Abraham Lincoln 192 

Christmas in 1875 192 

A Lifetime 193 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

From the Poet 195 

Good-Bye 195 



CONTENTS 



XI 



Thine Eyes Still Shined 196 

Written in Naples 196 

Written at Rome 196 

Webster 197 

The Rhodora 197 

Each and All -. 197 

The Apology 198 

Concord Hymn 198 

TJie Humble-Bee 198 

The Problem 199 

W-oodnotes 1 200 

Woodnotes II 201 

The Snow-Storm 204 

Holidays 205 

Art 205 

Compensation 205 

Friendship 205 

Forbearance 206 

Blight 206 

Character 207 

Politics 207 

Dirge 207 

Fable 208 

Threnody 208 

Ode 211 

The World-Soul 212 

Merlin 213 

Hamatreya 214 

Musketaquid 214 

Etienne de la Boece 216 

Brahma 216 

Days 216 

The Romany Girl 216 

Seashore 217 

Two Rivers 217 

Waldeinsamkeit 218 

Worship 218 

The Test 218 

The. Titmouse 219 

Voluntaries 230 

My Garden 221 

Terminus 222 

Fragments 222 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Tamerlane 224 

To 226 

A Dream Within a Dream 226 

Romance 227 

Sonnet — To Science 227 

To 227 

To Helen 227 

Israf el 228 

The City in the Sea 228 

The Sleeper 229 

Lenore 229 

The Valley of Unrest 230 

To One in Paradise 230 

The Coliseum 230 

Hymn 231 

To F 231 

Sonnet to Zante 231 

The Haunted Palace 232 

The Conqueror Worm 232 

Dream-Land 233 



The Raven 233 

Ulalume 235 

The Bells [[ 236 

To My Mother .\ ....... .. 237 

Annabel Lee 238 

Eldorado [ 238 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

To William Lloyd Garrison 239 

Expostulation 239 

Pentucket 241 

Memories 242 

Hampton Beach 242 

Massachusetts to Virginia 243 

The Shoemakers 245 

The Huskers 246 

The Crisis 248 

Ichabod 249 

Kossuth 250 

Pictures ..!!!! 250 

First-Day Thoughts 251 

Summer by the Lakeside 251 

Maud Muller ' 253 

Letter '[ 255 

The Barefoot Boy 256 

Arisen at Last 256 

The Panorama 257 

Skipper Ireson's Ride 257 

The Last Walk in Autumn 259 

The Garrison of Cape Ann 262 

TelHng the Bees '263 

The Double-Headed Snake of Newbury 264 

Brown of Ossawatomie 265 

The Waiting 266 

Barbara Frietchie 266 

Laus Deo ! 267 

The Eternal Goodness 268 

From " Snow-Bound " 269 

Our Master 272 

Abraham Davenport 274 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

"I Would Not Have This Perfect Love of 

Ours" 275 

" For This True Nobleness I Seek in Vain "... 275 
"My Love, I Have No Fear That Thou 

Shouldst Die " 275 

"Our Love Is Not a Fading Earthly Flower" 275 

The Sheperd of King Admetus 276 

An Incident in a Railroad-Car 276 

Song 277 

Wendell Phillips 278 

To the Dandelion 278 

Columbus 279 

The Changeling 282 

She Came and Went 283 

From The Biglow Papers, First Series 283 

From " The Vision of Sir Launfal " 288 

From " A P'able for Critics " 290 

The First Snow-Fail 295 

Without and Within 295 

Auf Wiedersehen 296 

Palinode 296 

Invita Minerva 296 



Xll 



CONTENTS 



The Origin of Didactic Poetry 297 

The Washers of the Shroud 298 

From The Biglow Papers, Second Series 300 

On Board the '76 310 

Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemoration. 311 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 

How Old Brown Took Harper's Ferry 

Edmund Clarence Stedman 317 

The Great Bell Roland Theodore Tilton 319 

The Picket-Guard Ethel Lynn Beers 320 

Farewell to Brother Jonathan .... By Caroline 320 

The Heart of Louisiana Harriet Stanton 321 

Maryland James R. Randall 322 

The Battle Summer Henry R. Tuckerman 323 

Dixie Albert Pike 323 

The Song of the Exile 324 

The Southern Cross St. George Tucker 325 

On to Richmond John R. Thompson 325 

A Farewell to Pope John R. Thompson 327 

Stonewall Jackson's Way John W. Palmer 328 

Original Version of the John Brown Song 

H. H. Brownell 328 
The President's Proclamation 

Edna Dean Proctor 329 
Glory Hallelujah! or John Brown's Body 

Charles Sprague Hall 329 
Glory Hallelujah, or New John Brown Song 

(Anon.) 330 

The Sweet South Wm. Gibnore Simms 330 

God Save the Nation ! Theodore Tilton 331 

A Battle Hymn George H. Boker 331 

Dirge for a Soldier George H. Boker 331 

Three Hundred Thousand More 332 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic 

Julia Ward Howe 332 
Ode: Our City by the Sea 

Wm. Gilmore Simms 333 

Who's Ready? Edna Dean Proctor 334 

Claribel's Prayer 335 

Little Giffen F. O. Ticknor 336 

Sheridan's Ride T. B. Read 336 

Marching Through Georgia. Henry Clay Work 337 
When Johnny Comes Marching Home 

Patrick S. Gilmore 337 

The Sword of Robert Lee Abram J. Ryan 338 

In the Land Where We Were Dreaming 

Dan R. Lucas 338 
The Closing Scene. . .Thomas Buchanan Read 339 
After All William Winter 341 

HENRY TIMROD 

Sonnet 342 

From "A Vision of Poesy" 342 

Sonnet 345 

Sonnet 345 

Sonnet 345 

Katie 345 

Ethnogenesis 346 

Spring 347 

Carolina 348 

Charleston 349 

Christmas 350 

The Cotton Boll 351 



Address Delivered at the Opening of the New 

Theatre at Richmond 353 

Storm and Calm 354 

Address to the Old Year 355 

PAUL HAMH^TON HAYNE 

The Will and the Wing 356 

My Study 356 

Beyond the Potomac 356 

Vicksburg— A Ballad 357 

A Dream of the South Winds 358 

Sonnet — Poets ' 358 

Aspects of the Pines 358 

Unveiled 359 

The Mocking-Bird 361 

Under the Pine 361 

The Snow-Messengers 362 

A Little While I Fain Would Linger Yet 364 

In Harbor 365 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

Woods in Winter 366 

Burial of the Minnisink 366 

A Psalm of Life 367 

Prelude 367 

The Village Blacksmith 368 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 369 

The Skeleton in Armor 370 

Excelsior 371 

Serenade 372 

The Arsenal at Springfield 372 

The Day Is Done 373 

The Bridge 373 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 374 

The Arrow and the Song 375 

Dante 375 

Seaweed 375 

Birds of Passage 376 

From " Evangeline " 376 

From " The Building of the Ship " 382 

Twilight 382 

Resignation 383 

From " The Song of Hiawatha " 383 

From " The Courtship of Miles Standish ". . . . 395 

My Lost Youth 399 

Sandalphon 400 

Paul Revere's Ride 401 

The Sicilian's Tale 402 

The Musician's Tale 403 

The Birds of Killingworth 412 

The Children's Hour 415 

The Cumberland 416 

Weariness 416 

Hawthorne 417 

The Wind Over the Chimney 417 

Christmas Bells 418 

Divina Commedia 418 

Killed at the Ford 419 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

To the Portrait of "A Lady" 421 

The ballad of the Oyster-Man 421 

The Music-Grinders 422 



CONTENTS 



xiu 



Old Ironsides 422 

The Last Leaf 423 

My Aunt 423 

The Comet 424 

A Portrait 425 

Daily Trials 425 

From " Poetry " 425 

"Qui Vive? " 426 

From " A Rhymed Lesson " 428 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 429 

The Stethoscope Song 430 

Lexington 431 

Latter-Day Warnings 432 

The Chambered Nautilus 432 

Contentment 433 

The Deacon's Masterpiece 434 

The Voiceless 435 

The Boys 436 

At a Meeting of Friends 437 

Hymn of Trust 438 

A Sun-Day Hymn 438 

Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College . . . 438 

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline . 440 

To My Readers 440 

To Canaan 441 

Non-Resistance 441 

The Moral Bully 442 

The Statesman's Secret 443 

Shakespeare 444 

Bryant's Seventieth Birthday 445 

A Farewell to Agassiz 446 

All Here 447 

SIDNEY LANIER 

The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson 449 

Night and Day 449 

Corn 449 

Acknowledgment 452 

The Symphony 453 

Clover 457 

Sonnets on Columbus 458 

Heartstrong South and Headstrong North. . . . 460 

Song of the Chattahoochee 461 

The Stirrup-Cup 461 

The Mocking Bird 461 

The Bee 462 

Under the Cedarcroft Chestnut 462 

A Song of the Future 463 

The Revenge of Hamish 463 

The Marshes of Glynn 465 

Marsh Song — ^At Sunset 467 

Remonstrance 467 

How Love Looked for HeU 468 

Sunrise . . • • 470 

WALT WHITMAN 

There Was a Child Went Forth 473 

From "Walt Whitman" 474 

From " Song of the Broad- Axe " 486 

From " Song of the Open Road " 489 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry 493 

From "As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario's Shore" 497 

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 500 

Starting from Paumanok 505 



A Song 512 

I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing 512 

I Hear It Was Charged Against Me 513 

Me Imperturbe 513 

I Hear America Singing 513 

With Antecedents 514 

Myself and Mine 515 

Drum-Taps 516 

Beat! Beat! Drums! 517 

The Centenarian s Story . .^ 518 

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night . . 521 

The Dresser 521 

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun 523 

Song of the Banner at Day-Break 524 

Pioneers! O Pioneers! 528 

Years of the Modern 531 

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer 531 

President Lincoln's Burial Hymn 532 

Death Carol 535 

O Captain! My Captain! 537 

One's-Self I Sing 537 

The Singer in the Prison 538 

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors 539 

The Base of All Metaphysics 540 

O Star of France! 540 

A Carol Closing Sixty-Nine 541 

Good-Bye My Fancy 541 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

The Witch's Whelp 542 

To a Celebrated Singer 543 

"How Are Songs Begot and Bred?" 544 

"The Yellow Moon Looks Slantly Down" 544 

The Flight of Youth 544 

The Divan 545 

"Poems of the Orient" 545 

Imogen 545 

Without and Within 547 

Abraham Lincoln 549 

Vates Patriae 551 

The Country Life 552 

A Catch 552 

The King Is Cold 552 

The Flower of Love Lies Bleeding 553 

"What Harmonious Is with Thee" 553 

"Though Thou Shouldst Live a Thousand 

"To Bear What is, to Be Resigned" 554 

"JOAQUIN" MILLER 

With Walker in Nicaragua 555 

The Last Taschastas 556 

Kit Carson's Ride 558 

England 559 

From "A Song of the South " 560 

Question? 560 

Crossing the Plains 561 

Westward Ho! 561 

The Sioux Chief's Daughter 562 

By the Pacific Ocean 563 

At Our Golden Gate 563 

Columbus 564 

Songs from Sappho and Phaon 564 

Adios 566 



XIV 



CONTENTS 



RICHARD HOVEY 

Comrades 568 

The Wander Lovers 568 

Spring 569 

At the End of Day 572 

Love in the Winds 572 

The Call of the Bugles 572 

L'nmanifest Destiny 575 

After Business Hours 576 

From "Taliesin: A Masque'' 576 

Faith and Fate 576 

^VILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 

Good Friday Night 577 

An Ode in Time of Hesitation 577 

Gloucester Moors 580 

The Menagerie 581 

The Daguerreotype 583 

The Death of Eve 586 



PART II— CRITICAL COMMENTS 

Foreword 593 

Anne Bradstreet 594 

Seventeenth Century Elegies, Songs' and Epi- 
grams ; 597 

Michael Wigglesworth 598 

R- Lewis 600 

The Almanacs of Nathaniel Ames 602 



Francis Hopkinson eo4 

John Trumbull [ [ 606 

Poetrj' of the Revolution 611 

^,^hilip Freneau §14 

Timothy Dwight //_\ 618 

Joel Barlow 621 

Joseph Rodman Drake 624 

Fitz-Greene Halleck [[ 626 

William Cullen Bryant ' . 629 

Ralph W'aldo Emerson 634 

Edgar Allan Poe 638 

John Greenleaf Whittier 644 

James Russell Lowell [ 648 

The Poetry of the Civil War 654 

Henry Timrod 656 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 659 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 661 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 666 

Sidney Lanier 670 

Walt Whitman 676 

Richard Henry Stoddard 680 

"Joaquin" Miller 684 

Richard Hovey 687 

A\'illiam Vaughn Moody 690 

Index of Subjects 699 

Index of Periodical Publication 709 

Index of Titles 712 

Index of First Lines 717 



PART I 
POEMS 



ANNE BRADSTREET 
(1612-1672) 



(The text is taken from the edition by 
J. H. Ellis, 1867.) 

To her most Honoured Father 

Thomas Dudley Esq; 

these humbly presented. 

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight 

Of your four Sisters cloth' d^ in black and 
white, 

Of fairer Dames the Sun, ne'r saw the 
face; 

Though made a pedestal for Adams Race; 

Their worth so shines in these rich Hnes 
you show 

Their paralels to finde I scarcely know 

To climbe their Climes, I have nor 
strength nor skill 

To mount so high requires an Eagles quill ; 

Yet view thereof did cause my thoughts to 
soar ; 9 

My lowly pen might wait upon these four 

I bring my four times four, now meanly 
clad 

To do their homage, unto yours, full glad : 

Who for their Age, their worth and quality 

Might seem of yours to claim precedency: 

But by my humble hand, thus rudely pen'd 

They are, your bounden handmaids to at- 
tend 

These same are they, from whom we be- 
ing have 

These are of all, the Life, the Nurse, the 
Grave, 

These are the hot, the cold, the moist, the 
dry. 

That sink, that swim,' that fill, that up- 
wards fly, _ ^ 

Of these consists our bodies, Cloathes and 
Food, 

The World, the useful, hurtful, and the 
good, . 

Sweet harmony they keep, yet jar oft 
times 

Their discord doth appear, by these harsh 
rimes 

Yours did contest for wealth, for Arts, 
for. Age, 

My first do shew their good, and then 
their rage. 

^ Thomas Dudley was a man of considerable 
culture (See Appendix). The reference in the 
opening lines is to a supposed manuscript poem 
"On the Four Parts of the World" of which 
nothing further is known. 



My other foures do intermixed tell 

Each others faults, and where themselves 

excell ; 
How hot and dry contend with moist and 

cold. 
How Air and Earth no correspondence 

hold, 30 

And yet in equal tempers, how they 'gree 
How divers natures make one Unity 
Something of all (though mean) I did in- 
tend 
But fear'd you'ld judge Du Bartas was 

my friend 
I honour him, but dare not wear his 

wealth 
My goods are true (though poor) I love 

no stealth 
But if I did I durst not send them you 
Who must reward a Thief, but with his 

due. 
I shall not need, mine innocence to clear 
These ragged lines, will do't, when they 

appear : 40 

On what they are, your mild aspect I crave 
Accept my best, my worst vouchsafe a 

Grave. 

From her that to your self, more duty 

owes 
Then water in the bound [1] ess Ocean 

flows. 

Anne Brad street. 
March 20, 1642. 



In Honour of that High and Mighty 
Princess 

QUEEN ELIZABETH 

OF HAPPY MEMORY 
THE PROEME 

Although great Queen thou now in silence 

lye 
Yet thy loud Herald Fame doth to the sky 
Thy wondrous worth proclaim in every 

Clime, 
And so hath vow'd while there is world or 

time. 
So great's thy glory and thine excellence, 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The sound thereof rapts every humane 

sence, 
That men account it no impiety, 
To say thou wert a fleshly Diety: 
Thousands bring offerings (though out of 

date) 
Thy world of honours to accumulate, lo 
'A'longst hundred Hecatombs of roaring 

verse. 
Mine bleating stands before thy royal 

Herse. 
Thou never didst nor canst thou now^ dis- 
dain 
T' accept the tribute of a loyal brain. 
Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much 
The acclamations of the poor as rich, 
\\'hich makes me deem my rudeness is no 

wrong, 
Though I resound thy praises 'mongst the 

throng. 

THE POEM 

No Phosnix pen, nor Spencers poetry, 
No Speeds'^ nor Cambdcns- learned His- 
tory, _ 20 
Elicahs works, warrs, praise, can e're com- 
pact. 
The World's the Theatre where she did act. 
No memoryes nor volumes can contain 
The 'leven Olympiads of her happy reign : 
Who was so good, so just, so learn'd so 

wise, 
From all the Kings on earth she won the 

prize. 
Nor say I more then duly is her due. 
Millions will testifie that this is true. 
She hath wip'd off th' aspersion of her Sex, 
That women wisdome lack to play the 
Rex : 30 

Spains Monarch, sayes not so, nor yet his 
host: 

^ "The Historie of Great Britatne under 
THE Conquests of the Romans, Saxons, Danes 
AND Normans. Their Originals, Manner,*;, Habits, 
Warres, Coines, and Seales: with the Succes- 
sions, Lines, Acts, and Issues of the English 
Monarchs, from Julius Caesar, to our most gra- 
cious Soueraigne, King James." "By John 
Speed." London, 1623. 

' "Annales Rerum Anglicarum et Hiberni- 
caru.m, Regnante Elizabetha, Ad Annum Salu- 
Tis M.D.Lxxxix. Guilielmo Camdeno Authore. 
Londini, m.dc.xv." 

"Annales or. The. History of the Most 
Renowned and Victorious Princesse Elizabeth, 
Late Queen of England. Contayning all the 
Important and Remarkable Passages of State, 
both at Home and Abroad, during her Long 
and Prosperous Reigne. Written in Latin by 
the learned Mr. William Camden. Translated 
into English by R. N. Gent. Together with 
divers Additions of the .■Authors never before 
published. The third Edition." London, 1635. 



She taught them better manners, to their 

cost. 
The Salique law, in force now had not 

been, 
H France had ever hop'd for such a 

Queen. 
But can you Doctors now this point dis- 
pute. 
She's Argument enough to make you mute. 
Since first the sun did run his nere run 

race. 
And earth had once a year, a new old 

face, 
Since time was time, and man unmanly 

man. 
Come shew me such a Phoenix if you 

can ? 40 

Was ever people better rul'd then hers? 
Was ever land more happy freed from 

stirrs? 
Did ever wealth in England more abound? 
Her victoryes in forreign Coasts resound. 
Ships more invincible then Spain's, her foe 
She wrackt, she sackt, she sunk his Ar- 

mado : 
Her statelv troops advanc'd to Lisbons 

wall 
Do)i A)ithony in's right there to install. 
She frankly helpt, Franks brave distressed 

King, 
The States united now her fame do 

sing, 50 

She their Protectrix was, they well do 

know 
Unto our dread Virago, what they owe. 
Her Nobles sacrific'd their noble blood. 
Nor men nor Coyn she spar'd to do them 

good. 
The rude untamed Irish, she did quel, 
Before her picture the proud Tyrone fell. 
Had ever Prince such Counsellours as 

she? 
Her self Minerva caus'd them so to be. 
Such Captains and such souldicrs never 

seen, S9 

As were the Subjects of our Pallas Queen. 
Her Sea-men through all straights the 

world, did round. 
Terra incognita might know the sound. 
Her Drake came laden home with Spanish 

gold: 
Her Essex took Cades, their Herculean 

Hold : 
But time would fail me, so my tongue 

would to. 
To tell of half she did, or she could doe. 
Semiramis to her, is but obscure. 
More infamy then fame, she did procure. 
She built her glory but on Babels walls. 



II 



ANNE BRADSTREET 



Worlds wonder for a while, but yet it 

falls. 70 

Fierce Tomris (Cyrus heads-man) Scy- 
thians queen, 
Had put her harness off, had shee but 

seen 
Our Amazon in th' Camp of Tilbury. 
Judging all valour and all Majesty 
Within that Princess to have residence, 
And prostrate yielded to her excellence. 
Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage 

walls, 
(Who living consummates her Funeralls) 
A great Eliza, but compar'd with ours. 
How vanisheth her glory, wealth and 

powers. 8° 

Profuse, proud Cleopatra, whose wrong 

name. 
Instead of glory, prov'd her Countryes 

shame : 
Of her what worth in Storyes to be seen, 
But that she was a rich Egyptian Queen. 
Zenobya potent Empress of the East, 
And of all these, without compare the 

best. 
Whom none but great Aurelius could quel ; 
Yet for our Queen is no fit Parallel. 88 
She was a Phoenix Queen, so shall she be, 
Her ashes not reviv'd, more Phoenix she. 
Her personal perfections, who would tell. 
Must dip his pen in th' Heleconian Well, 
Which I may not, my pride doth but as- 
pire 
To read what others write, and so admire. 
Now say, have women worth? or have 

they none? 
Or had they 5bme, but with our Queen is't 

gone? 
Nay Masculines, you have thus taxt us 

long. 
But she, though dead, will vindicate our 

wrong. 
Let such as say our Sex is void of Reason, 
Know tis a Slander now, but once was 

Treason. loo 

But happy England which had such a 

Queen ; 
Yea happy, happy, had those dayes still 

been : 
But happiness lyes in a higher sphere, 
Then wonder not Elisa moves not here. 
Full fraught with honour, riches and with 

dayes 
She set, she set, like Titan in his rayes. 
No more shall rise or set so glorious sun. 
Untill the heavens great revolution. 
If then new things their old forms shall 

retain, 
Eliza shall rule Albion once again. "o 



Her Epitaph 

Here sleeps THE Queen, this is the Royal 

Bed, 
Of th" Damask Rose, sprung from the 

white and red. 
Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling 

Air: 
This Rose is wither'd, once so lovely fair. 
On neither tree did grow such Rose before. 
The greater was our gain, our loss the 

more. 

ANOTHER 

Here lyes the pride of Queens, Pattern 

of Kings, 
So blase it Fame, here's feathers for thy 

wings. 
Here lyes the envi'd, yet unparalled Prince, 
Whose living virtues speak, {though dead 

long since) i^o 

// many worlds, as that Fantastick fram'd, 
In every one be her great glory fam'd. 
1643. 1650. 

THE PROLOGUE 1 

1 

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of 

Kings, 
Of Cities founded. Common-wealths be- 
gun. 
For my mean pen are too superiour 

things : 
Or how they all, or each their dates have 

run 
Let Poets and Historians set these forth. 
My obscure Lines shall not so dim their 

worth. 

2 
But when my wondring eyes and envious 

heart 
Great Bartas sugar'd lines, do but read 

o're 
Fool I do grudg the Muses did not part 
'Twixt him and me that overfluent store ; 
A Bartas can, do what a Bartas will " 
But simple I according to my skill. 



From school-boyes tongue no rhet'rick we 
expect 

Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken 
strings. 

Nor perfect beauty, where's a main de- 
fect: 

^ To the long poems The Four Elements, The 
Four Humours, The Four Ages, and The Four 
Seasons. 



AMERICAN POETRY 



My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so 

sings 
And this to mend, alas, no Art is able, 
'Cause nature, made it so irreparable. 



Nor can I, like that fluent sweet tongu'd 

Greek, 
Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak 

plain 20 

By Art he gladly found what he did seek 
A full requital of his, striving pain 
Art can do much, but this maxima's most 

sure 
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure. 



I am obnoxious to each carping tongue 
Who says my hand a needle better fits, 
A Poets pen all scorn I should thus wrong. 
For such despite they cast on Female wits : 
If what I do prove well, it won't advance, 
They'l say it's stoln, or else it was by 

chance. 3° 

6 
But sure the Antique Greeks were far 

more mild 
Else of our Sexe, why feigned they those 

Nine 
And poesy made. Calliope's own Child ; 
So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts 

Divine, 
But this weak knot, they will full soon 

untie, 
The Greeks did nought, but play the fools 

& lye. 

7 
Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what 

they are 
Men have precedency and still excell. 
It is but vain unjustly to wage warre ; 39 
Men can do best, and women know it well 
Preheminence in all and each is yours ; 
Yet grant some small acknowledgement of 

ours. 

8 
And oh ye high flown quills that soar the 

Skies, 
And ever with your prey still catch your 

praise, 
If e're you daigne these lowly lines your 

eyes 
Give Thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no 

bayes, 
This mean and unrefined ure of mine 
Will make youlr] glistring gold, but more 

to shine. 



CONTEMPLATIONS' 

1 
Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide, 
When Phoebus wanted but one hour to 

bed, 
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride, 
Wliere gilded o're by his rich golden head. 
Their leaves & fruits seem'd painted, but 

was true 
Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew. 
Rapt were my sences at this delectable 

view. 



I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought 

If so much excellence abide below; 9 
How excellent is he that dwells on high? 
Whose power and beauty by his works we 

know. 
Sure he is goodness, wisdome, glory, light. 
That hath this under world so richly 

dight : 
More Heaven then Earth was here no 

winter & no night. 



Then on a stately Oak I cast' mine Eye, 

Whose ruffling top the Clouds seem'd to 
aspire; 

How long since thou wast in thine In- 
fancy ? 

Thy strength, and stature, more thy years 1 
admire, f 

Hath hundred winters past since thou 
wast born? 

Or thousatid since thou brakest thy shell 
of horn, 20 

If so, all these as nought. Eternity doth 
scorn. 

4 
Then higher on the glistering Sun I gaz'd. 
Whose beams was shaded by the leavie 

Tree, 
The more I look'd, the more I grew 

amaz'd, 
And softly said, what glory's like to thee? 
Soul of this world, this Universes Eye, 
No wonder, some made thee a Deity : 
Had I not better known (alas) the same 

had I. 

5 
Thou as a Bridegroom from thy Chamber 

rushes. 29 

And as a strong man, joyes to run a race, 

' First published in edition of 1678. 



m 



ANNE BRADSTREET 



The morn doth usher thee, with smiles & 

blushes, 
The Earth reflects her glances in thy face. 
Birds, insects, Animals with Vegative, 
Thy heart from death and dulness doth 

revive : 
And in the darksome womb of fruitful 

nature dive. 

6 
Thy swift Annual, and diurnal Course, 
Thy daily streight, and yearly oblique path. 
Thy pleasing fervor, and thy scorching 

force. 
All mortals here the feeling knowledg 

hath. 
Thy presence makes it day, thy absence 

night, 40 

Quaternal Seasons caused by thy might : 
•Hail Creature, full of sweetness, beauty 

& delight. 

7 
Art thou so full of glory, that no Eye 
Hath strength, thy shining Rayes once to 

behold? 
And is thy splendid Throne erect so high? 
As to approach it, can no earthly mould. 
How full of glory then must thy Creator 

be? 
Who gave this bright light luster unto 

thee ; _ 48 

Admir'd, ador'd for ever, be that Majesty. 



Silent alone, where none or saw, or heard, 
In pathless paths I lead my wandring feet. 
My humble Eyes to lofty Skyes J rear'd 
To sing some Song, my mazed Muse 

thought meet. 
My great Creator I would magnifie, 
That nature had, thus decked liberally: 
But Ah, and Ah, again, my imbecility ! 



I heard the merry grashopper then sing, 
The black clad Cricket, bear a second part. 
They kept one tune, and plaid on the same 

string. 
Seeming to glorv in their little Art. ^ 

Shall Creatures abject, thus their voices 

raise? 
And in their kind resound their makers 

praise : 
Whilst I as mute, can warble forth no 

higher layes. 

10 

When present times look back to Ages 
past, 



And men in being fancy those are dead, 
It makes things gone perpetually to last. 
And calls back moneths and years that 

long since fled 
It makes a man more aged in conceit, 
Then was Methuselah, or's grand-sire 

great : 
While of their persons & their acts his 

mind doth treat. 7° 

11 
Sometimes in Eden fair, he seems to be, 
Sees glorious Adam there made Lord of 

all, 
Fancyes the Apple, dangle on the Tree, 
That turn'd his Sovereign to a naked thral. 
Who like a miscreant's driven from that 

place, 
To get his bread with pain, and sweat of 

face: 
A penalty impos'd on his backsliding Race. 

12 
Here sits our Grandame in retired place. 
And in her lap, her bloody Cain new born. 
The weeping Imp oft looks her in the 
face, 80 

Bewails his unknown hap, and fate for- 
lorn; 
His Mother sighs, to think of Paradise, 
And how she lost her bliss, to be more 

wise, 
Believing him that was, and is. Father of 
lyes. 

13 

Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice. 

Fruits of the Earth, and Fatlings each do 
bring, 

On Abels gift the fire descends from 
Skies, 

But no such sign on false Cain's offering; 

With sullen hateful looks he goes his 
wayes. 

Hath thousand thoughts to end his broth- 
ers dayes, 90 

Upon whose blood his future good he 
hopes to raise. 

14 

There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he 
thinks. 

His brother comes, then acts his fratri- 
cide. 

The Virgin Earth, of blood her first 
draught drinks 

But since that time she often hath been 
cloy'd ; 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The wretch with gastly face and dreadful 

mind, 
Thinks each he sees will serve him in his 

kind. 
Though none on Earth but kindred near 

then could he find. 

15 

Who fancyes not his looks now at the 

Barr, 
His face like death, his heart with horror 

fraught, 100 

Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr. 
When deep dispair, with wish of life hath 

fought, 
Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble 

woes, 
A Vagabond to Land of Nod he goes. 
A City builds, that wals might him secure 

from foes. 

16 

Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages. 
Their long descent, how nephews sons 

they saw. 
The starry observations of those Sages, 
And how their precepts to their sons were 

law. 
How Adam sigh'd to see his Progeny, "o 
Cloath'd all in his black sinfuU Livery, 
Who neither guilt, nor yet the punishment 

could fly. 

17 
Our Life compare we with their length 

of dayes 
Who to the tenth of theirs doth now 

arrive? 
And though thus short, we shorten many 

wayes. 
Living so little while we are alive ; 
In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight 
So unawares comes on perpetual night, 
A.nd puts all pleasures vain unto eternal 

flight. 

18 

When I behold the heavens as in their 
prime, '-o 

And then the earth (though old) stil clad 
in green, 

The stones and trees, insensible of time. 

Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are 
seen ; 

If winter come, and greeness then do fade, 

A Spring returns, and they more youth- 
full made; 

But Man grows old, lies down, remains 
where once he's laid. 



19 

By birth more noble then those creatures 

all. 
Yet seems by nature and by custome 

curs'd, 
No sooner born, but grief and care makes 

fall 
That state obliterate he had at first : 130 
Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom 

spring again 
Nor habitations long their names retain. 
But in oblivion to the final day remain. 

20 
Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, 

the earth 
Because their beauty and their strength 

last longer 
Shall I wish there, or never to had birth. 
Because they're bigger, & their bodyes 

• stronger? 
Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and 

dye, 
And when unmade, so ever shall they lye, 
But man was made for endless immor- 
talitv. 140 

21 

Under the cooling shadow of a stately 

Elm 
Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side. 
Where gliding streams the Rocks did 

overwhelm ; 
A lonely place, with pleasures dignifi'd. 
I once that lov'd the shady woods so well. 
Now thought the rivers did the trees 

excel. 
And if the sun would ever shine, there 

would I dwell. 

22 
While on the stealing stream I fixt mine 

eye. 
Which to the long'd for Ocean held its 

course, 
I markt. nor crooks, nor rubs that there 

did lye «so 

Could hinder ought, but still augment its 

force : 
O happy Flood, quoth I, that holds thy 

race 
Till thou arrive at thy beloved place. 
Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct 

thv pace. 

23 
Nor is't enough, that thou alone may'st 

slide. 
But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do 

meet. 



I 



ANNE BRADSTREET 



So hand in hand along with thee they 

glide 
To Thetis house, where all imbrace and 

greet : 
Thou Emblem true, of what I count the 

best, 

could I lead my Rivolets to rest, i6o 
So may we press to that vast mansion, 

ever blest. 

24 

Ye Fish which in this liquid Region 'bide. 

That for each season, have your habita- 
tion, 

Now salt, now fresh where you think best 
to glide 

To unknown coasts to give a visitation, 

In Lakes and ponds, you leave your nu- 
merous fry. 

So nature taught, and yet you know not 
why, 

You watry folk that know not your fe- 
licity. 

25 

Look how the wantons frisk to tast the 
air, 

Then to the colder bottome streight they 
dive, 170 

Eftsoon to Neptun's glassie Hall repair 

To see what trade they great ones there 
do drive. 

Who forrage o're the spacious sea-green 
field, 

And take the trembling prey before it 
yield, 

Whose armour is their scales, their 
spreading fins their shield. 

26 

While musing thus with contemplation 

fed. 
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain. 
The sweet-tongu'd Philomel percht ore my 

head. 
And chanted forth a most melodious strain 
Which rapt me so with wonder and de- 
light, 180 

1 judg'd my hearing better then my sight, 
And wisht me wings with her a while to 

take my flight. 

27 
O merry Bird (said I) that fears no 

snares. 
That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy 

barn, 
Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating 

cares 



To gain more good, or shun what might 

thee harm 
Thy cloaths ne're wear, thy meat is every 

where. 
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water 

cleer, 
Reminds not what is past, nor what to 

come dost fear. 

28 
The dawning morn with songs thou dost 
prevent,! 190 

Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered 

crew. 
So each one tunes his pretty instrument, 
And warbling out the old, begin anew. 
And thus they pass their youth in sum- 
mer season. 
Then follow thee into a better Region, 
Where winter's never felt by that sweet 
airy legion. 

29 

Man at the best a creature frail and vain. 

In knowledg ignorant, in strength but 
weak. 

Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain. 

Each storm his state, his mind, his body 
break, 200 

From some of these he never finds cessa- 
tion. 

But day or night, within, without, vexa- 
tion. 

Troubles from foes, from friends, from 
dearest, near'st Relation. 

30 

And yet this sinfull creature, frail and 
vain, 

This lump of wretchedness, of sin and 
sorrow. 

This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with 
pain, 

Joyes not in hope of an eternal morrow ; 

Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation. 

In weight, in frequency and long duration 

Can make him deeply groan for that di- 
vine Translation. 210 

31 

The Mariner that on smooth waves doth 

glide. 
Sings merrily, and steers his Barque with 

ease. 
As if he had command of wind and tide. 
And now become great Master of the 

seas; 

* Anticipate. 



AMERICAN POETRY 



But suddenly a storm spoiles all the sport, 
And makes him long for a more quiet 

port, 
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve 

for fort. 

32 

So he that saileth in this world of pleas- 
ure, 

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' 
sowre, 

That's full of friends, of honour and of 
treasure, 220 

Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for 
heav'ns bower. 

But sad affliction comes & makes him see 

Here's neither honour, wealth, nor safety; 

Only above is found all with security. 

33 
O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things. 
That draws oblivions curtains over kings. 
Their sumptuous monuments, men know 

them not, 
Their names without a Record are forgot. 
Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all 

laid in th' dust 
Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings scape 

times rust; 230 

But he whose name is grav'd in the white 

stone^ 
Shall last and shine when all of these are 

gone. 



THE AUTHOR TO HER BOOK 

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble 

brain, 
Who after birth did'st by my side remain. 
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less 

wise then true 
Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view. 
Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press 

to trudg, 
Where errors were not lessened (all may 

judg) 
At thy return my blushing was not small. 
My rambling brat (in print) should 

mother call, 
I cast thee by as one unfit for light, 
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight; 'o 
Yet being mine own, at length affection 

would 
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could: 
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw, 
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. 
»Rev. ii. 17. 



I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even 

feet. 
Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is 

meet; 
In better dress to trim thee was my mind, 
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' 

house I find 
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou 

roam 
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not 

come ; 20 

And take thy way where yet thou art not 

known. 
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst 

none : 
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor, 
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out 

of door. 

1678. 



LETTERS TO HER HUSBAND 2 

To my dear and loving Husband 

If ever two were one, then surely we. 
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee; ■ 
If ever wife was happy in a man ■] 

Compare with me ye women if j'ou can. ■ 
I prize thy love more then whole Mines 

of gold, 
Or all the riches that the East doth hold. 
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench. 
Nor ought but love from thee, give rec- 

ompence. 
Thy love is such I can no way repay, 9 
The heavens reward thee manifold I pray. 
Then while we live, in love lets so per- 

sever. 
That when we live no more, we may live 

ever. 

A Letter to her Husband, absent upon 
Publick employment 

My head, my heart, mine Eyes, my life, 
nay more. 

My joy. my Magazine of earthly store. 

If two be one, as surely thou and I, 

How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ips- 
wich lye ? 

So many steps, head from the heart to 
sever 

If but a neck, soon should we be to- 
gether : 

I like the earth this season, mourn in 
black. 

My Sun is gone so far in's Zodiack, 
- First published in edition of 1678. 



ANNE BRADSTREET 



Whom whilst I 'joy'd, nor storms, nor 
frosts I felt, 

His warmth such frigid colds did cause 
to melt. 10 

My chilled limbs now nummed lye for- 
lorn ; 

Return, return sweet Sol from Capricorn; 

In this dead time, alas, what can I more 

Then view those fruits which through thy 
heat I bore? 

Which sweet contentment yield me for a 
space, 

True living Pictures of their Fathers face. 

strange effect ! now thou art South- 

ward gone, 

1 weary grow, the tedious day so long; 
But when thou Northward to me shalt 

return, 
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn 20 
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast. 
The welcome house of him my dearest 

guest. 
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence, 
Till natures sad decree shall call thee 

hence ; 
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, 
I here, thou there, yet both but one. 

A. B. 
Another 

Phoebus make haste, the day's too long, 

be gone, 
The silent night's the fittest time for 

moan; 
But stay this once, unto my suit give ear, 
And tell my griefs in either Hemisphere : 
(And if the whirHng of thy wheels don't 

drown' d) 
The woful accents of my doleful sound. 
If in thy swift Carrier thou canst make 

stay, 
I crave this boon, this Errand by the way. 
Commend me to the man more lov'd then 

life. 
Shew him the sorrows of his widdowed 

wife; 10 

My dumpish thoughts, my groans, my 

brakish tears 
My sobs, my longing hopes, my doubting 

fears. 
And if he love, how can he there abide? 
My Interest's more then all the world be- 
side. 
He that can tell the starrs or Ocean sand. 
Or all the grass that in the Meads do 

stand. 
The leaves in th' woods, the hail or drops 

of rain. 
Or in a corn-field number every grain, 



Or every mote that in the sun-shine hops', 
May count my sighs, and number all my 

drops : ^° 

Tell him, the countless steps that thou 

dost trace. 
That once a day, thy Spouse ihou mayst 

imbrace ; 
And when thou canst not treat by loving 

mouth. 
Thy rayes afar, salute her from the south. 
But for one m6neth I see no day (poor 

soul) 
Like those far scituate under the pole. 
Which day by day long wait for thy arise, 
O how they joy when thou dost light the 

skyes. 
O Phcehus, hadst thou but thus long from 

thine 
Restrain'd the beams of thy beloved 

shine, 30 

At thy return, if so thou could'st or durst 
Behold a Chaos blacker then the first. 
Tell him here's worse then a confused 

matter. 
His little world's a fathom under water. 
Nought but the fervor of his ardent beams 
Hath power to dry the torrent of these 

streams. 
Tell him I would say more, but cannot 

well, 
Opressed minds, abruptest tales do tell. 
Now post with double speed, mark what 

I say, 
By all our loves conjure him not to stay. 4° 

Another 

As loving Hind that (Hartless) wants her 
Deer, 

Scuds through the woods and Fern with 
harkning ear, 

Perplext, in every bush & nook' doth pry, 

Her dearest Deer, might answer ear or 
eye; 

So doth my anxious soul, which now doth 
miss, 

A dearer Dear (far dearer Heart) then 
this. 

Still wait with doubts, & hopes, and fail- 
ing eye. 

His voice to hear, or person to discry. 

Or as the pensive Dove doth all alone 

(On withered bough) most uncouthly be- 
moan ■ 10 

The absence of her Love, and loving Mate, 

Whose loss hath made her so unfortunate : 

Ev'n thus doe I, with many a deep sad 
groan 

Bewail my turtle true, who now is gone, 



10 



AMERICAN POETRY 



His presence and his safe return, still 
wooes, 

With thousand dolcfull sighs & mourn- 
full Cooes. 

Or as the loving Mullet, that true Fish, 

Her fellow lost, nor joy nor life do wish. 

But lanches on that snore, there for to 
dye. 

Where she her captive husband doth 
espy. 20 

Mine being gone, I lead a joyless life. 

I have a loving phere, yet seem no wife: 

But worst of all, to him can't steer my 
course, 

I here, he there, alas, both kept by force: 



Return my Dear, my joy, my only Love, 
Unto thy Hinde, thy Mullet and thy 

Dove, 
Who neither joyes in pasture, house nor 

streams. 
The substance gone, O me, these are but 

dreams. 
Together at one Tree, oh let us brouze, 
And like two Turtles roost within one 

house. 30 

And like the Mullets in one River glide. 

Let's still remain but one. till death divide. 

Thy loving Love and Dearest Dear, 

At home, abroad, and every where. 

A. B. 



SEVENTEENTH CENTURY SONGS, EPIGRAMS 
AND ELEGIES 



SONGi 

By Thomas Morton 

Drinke and be merry, merry, merry boyes ; 

Let all your delight be in the Hymens 
joyes; 

Joy to Hymen, now the day is come. 

About the merry Maypole take a Roome. 
Make greene garlons, bring bottles out 
And fill sweet Nectar freely about. 
Uncover thy head and feare no harme. 
For hers good liquor to keepe it warme. 

Then drinke and be merry, etc. 

Joy to Hymen, etc. lo 

Nectar is a thing assign'd 

By the Dieties owne minde 

To cure the hart opprest with greife. 

And of good liquors is the cheife. 

Then drinke, etc. 

Joy to Hymen, etc. 

Give to the Mellancolly man 
A cup or two of 't now and than ; 
This physick will soone revive his bloud, 
And make him be of a merrier moode. 20 

Then drinke, etc. 

Joy to Hymen, etc. 

Give to the Nymphe thats free from 

scorne 
No Irish stuiT nor Scotch over worne. 
Lasses in beaver coats come away, 
Yee shall be welcome to us night and 
day. 
To drinke and be merry, etc. 
Joy to Hymen, etc. 

1637. 

FROM "THE SIMPLE COBLER OF 

AGGAWAM" 

By Nathaniel Ward 2 

When boots and shoes are torn up to the 

lefts, 
Coblers must thrust their awles up to the 

hefts. 

' With fine inappropriateness, this roistering 
song by Thomas Morton of Merry Mount is 
actually the first memorable piece of verse asso- 
ciated with Puritan New England. He was twice 
sent back to England and after the return from 



11 



Gray Gravity it self can well beteam, 
That Language be adapted to the Theme. 
He that to Parrots speaks, must parrotise. 
He that instructs a fool, may act th' un- 
wise. 

These whimm' Crown'd shees, these fash- 
ion- fansying wits, 

Are empty thin brain'd shells, and fidling 
Kits. 

The world is full of care, much like unto 

a bubble, 
Women and care, and care and Women, 

and Women and care and trouble. 10 

The joyning of the Red-Rose with the 

White, 
Did set our state into a Damask plight. 

When States dishelv'd are, and Laws un- 
twist, 

Wise men keep their tongues, fools speak 
what they list. 

TWO PREDICTIONS 

1. When God shall purge this Land with 

soap and nitre. 
Wo be to the Crown, wo be to the 
Mitre. t» 

2. There is a set of Bishops coming next 

behind. 
Will ride the Devil off his legs, and 
break his wind. 

Where clocks will stand, and Dials have 

no light. 
There men must go by guess, be't wrong 

or right. 

SONG 

Si nahira negat, facit indignatio versum 
Qualemcunque potest. — Juvenal. 

1 

They seldome lose the field, but often win, 
They end their warrs, before their warrs 
begin. 

his second deportation was imprisoned in Boston 
for a year. He died in Maine in 1646. 

'■^ See note on "The Tenth Muse" by N. 
Ward, page 13. These verses are scattered 
throughout a prose text of 89 pages. 



12 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Their Cause is oft the worse, that first 

begin, 
And they may lose the field, the field that 

win. 

3 
In Civil warrs 'twixt Subjects and their 

King, 
There is no conquest got, by conquering. 



Warre ill begun, the onely way to mend. 
Is t' end the warre before the warre do 

end. 

5 
They that will end ill warrs, must have 

the skill, 9 

To make an end by Rule, and not by Will. 



In ending warrs 'tween Subjects and their 

Kings, 
Great things are sav'd, by losing little 

things. 

The crazy world will crack, in all the 

middle joynts, 
If all the ends it hath, have not their 

parapoynts. 

The body beares the head, the head the 

Crown, 
If both beare not alike, then one will 

down. 

Subjects their King, the King his Sub- 
jects greets, 

Whilome the Scepter and the Plough- 
staffe meets. 

A peace well made, is likeliest then to 

hold. 
When 'tis both dearly bought and dearly 

sold. 2o 

King Charles will joyn himself to bitter 

Griefe 
Then joyne to God, and prove a Godly 

Chiefe. 

They that at stake their Crownes and 

Honours set. 
Play lasting games, if Lust or Guilt doe 

bet. 

Grace will dissolve, but rigour hardens 

guilt: 
Break not with Steely blows, what oyle 

should melt. 



I 



In Breaches integrant, 'tween Principalis 
of States, 

Due Justice may suppresse, but Love red- 
integrates. 



COUNTRY HOBNAILS 

There, lives cannot be good. 
There, Faith cannot be sure. 

Where Truth cannot be quiet, 
Nor Ordinances pure. 

No King can King it right. 
Nor rightly sway his Rod; 

Who truely loves not Christ, 
And truely fears not God. 

He cannot rule a Land, 
As Lands should ruled been. 

That lets himself be rul'd 
By a ruling Romane Queen. 

No earthly man can be 
True Subject to this State; 

Who makes the Pope his Christ, 
An Heretique his Mate. 

There Peace will go to War, 
And Silence make a noise: 

Where upper things will not 
With nether equipoyse. 

The upper World shall Rule, 
While Stars will run their race 

The nether World obey. 

While People keep their place. 

The Clench 
If any of these come out 

So long's the World doe last 
Then credit not a word 

Of what is said and past. 



The World's a well strung fidlc, mans 
tongue the quill, 
That fills the World with fumble for 
want of skill. 
When things and words in tune and tone 
doe meet. 
The universall Song goes smooth and 
sweet. 

He that to tall men speakcs. must lift up's 
head; 
And when h' hath done, must set it 
where he did : '<> 

He that to proud men talkes, must put on 
pride ; 
And when h' hath done, 'tis good to 
lay't aside. 



SONGS, EPIGRAMS AND ELEGIES 



13 



When Kings are lost, and Subjects cast 
away, 
A faithful heart should speak what 
tongue can say : 
It skils not where this faithfuU heart doth 
dwell, 
His faithfuU dealing should be taken 
well. 

The World is grown so fine in words and 

wit. 
That pens must now Sir Edward Nich'las 

it. 
He that much matter speaks, speaks ne'r 

a whit. 
If's tongue doth not career't above his 

wit. ^° 

Coblers will mend, but some will never 
mend, 
But end, and end, and end, and never 
end. 
A well-girt houre gives every man con- 
tent. 
Six ribs of beefe are worth six weeks 
of Lent. 

Poore Coblers wel may fault it now and 
then, 
They'r ever mending faults for other 
men. 
And if I worke for nought, why is it said. 
This bungling Cobler would be soundly 
paid ? 

So farewell England old 

If evil times ensue, 3° 

Let good men come to us, 

Wee'l welcome them to New. 

And farewell Honor'd Friends, 

If happy dayes ensue, 
You'l have some Guests from hence. 

Pray Welcome us to you. 

And farewell simple World, 
If thou'lt thy Cranium mend, 

There is my Last and All. 
And a Shoem-akers 4° 

END. 

Postscript 

This honest Cobler has done what he 
might : 

That Statesmen in their Shoes might 
walk upright. 

But rotten Shoes of Spannish running- 
leather : ^ 

No Coblers skill, can stitch them strong 
together. 



It were best to cast such rotten stuflf 

away: 
And look for that, that never will decay. 

If all were shod with Gospel's lasting 

Peace ; 
Hatred abroad, and Wars at home would 

1647. 

ON "THE TENTH MUSE" 

By N. Wardi 

Mercury shew'd Apollo, Bartas Book, 
Minerva this, and whisht him well to look, 
And tell uprightly which did which excell, 
He view'd and view'd, and vow'd he could 

not tel. 
They bid him Hemifphear his mouldy 

nose, 
With's crackt leering glasses, for it would 

pose 
The best brains he had in's old pudding- 
pan. 
Sex weigh'd, which best, the Woman, or 

the Man? 
He peer'd and por'd, & glar'd, & said for 

wore, 9 

I'm even as wise now, as I was before : 
They both 'gan laugh, and said it was no 

mar'l 
The Auth'ress was a right Du Bartas 

Girle. 
Good sooth quoth the old Don, tell ye 

me so, 
I muse whither at length these Girls will 

go; 
It half revives my chil frost-bitten blood. 
To see a Woman once, do ought that's 

good; 
And chode by Chancers Boots, and Ho- 
mers Furrs, 
Let Men look to't, least Women wear the 

Spurrs. _ 

Cir. 1650. 
UPON 

MRS. ANNA BRADSTREET 

HER POEMS, &C. 

1 

Madam, twice through the Muses Grove 

I walkt, 
Under your blissful bowres, I shrowding 

there, 

^ This clergryman, well-known as the eccentric 
author of "The Simple Cobbler of Agawam," 
had been a neighbor of Mrs. Bradstreet in 
Ipswich. He returned to England in 1647, and 
may have been concerned in the publication of 
her poems. (Printed with this note in "Works 
of Anne Bradstreet" ed. J. H. Ellis.) 



14 



AMERICAN POETRY 



It seem'd with Nymphs of Helicon I 
talkt : 

For there those sweet-lip'd Sisters sport- 
ing were, 

Apollo with his sacred Lute sate by 

On high they made their heavenly Son- 
nets flye, 

Posies around they strow'd, of sweetest 
Poesie. 



Twice have I drunk the Nectar of your 
lines, 

Which high sublim'd my mean born phan- 
tasie, 

Flusht with these streams of your Maro- 
nean wines ^"^ 

Above my self rapt to an extasie : 

Methought I was upon Mount Hiblas top, 

There where I might those fragrant flow- 
ers lop, 

Whence did sweet odors flow, and honey 
spangles drop. 



To Venus shrine no Altars raised are. 
Nor venom'd shafts from painted quiver 

fly. 
Nor wanton Doves of Aphrodites Carr, 
Or fluttering there, nor here forlornly lie, 
Lome Paramours, not chatting birds tell 

news 
How sage Apollo, Daphine hot pursues, ^° 
Or stately Jove himself is wont to haunt 

the stews. 



Nor barking satyrs breath, nor driery 

clouds 
Exhal'd from Styx, their dismal drops 

distil 
Within these Fairy, flowry fields, nor 

shrouds 
The screeching night Raven, with his 

shady quill : 
But Lyrick strings here Orpheus nimbly 

Orion on his sadled Dolphin sits. 
Chanting as every hu-mour, age & season 
fits. 

5 

Here silver swans, with Nightingales set 
spells. 

Which sweetly charm the Traveller, and 
raise 30 

Earths earthed Monarchs, from their hid- 
den Cells, 

And to appearance summons lapsed daycs. 



There heav'nly air, becalms the swelling 

frayes, 
And fury fell of Elements allayes, 
By paying every one due tribute' of his 

praise. 

6 
Thes seem'd the Scite of all those verdant 

vales, 
And purled springs, whereat the Nymphs 

do play. 
With lofty hills, where Poets rear their 

tales. 
To heavenly vaults, which heav'nly sound 

repay 
By ecchoes sweet rebound, here Ladyes 

kiss, 40 

Circling nor songs, nor dances circle miss ; 
But whilst those Syrens sung, I sunk in 

sea of bliss. 



Thus weltring in delight, my virgin mind 
Admits a rape ; truth still lyes undiscri'd, 
Its singular, that plural seem'd, I find, 
'Twas Fancies glass alone that multipli'd; 
Nature with Art so closely did combine, 
I thought I saw the Muses treble trine. 
Which prov'd your lonely Muse, superiour 
to the nine. 



Your only hand those Poesies did com- 
pose, so 

Your head the source, whence all those 
springs did flow. 

Your voice, whence changes sweetest notes 
arose. 

Your feet that kept the dance alone, I 
trow : 

Then vail your bonnets. Poetasters all. 

Strike, lower amain, and at these humbly 
fall. 

And deem your selves advanc'd to be her 
Pedestal. 



Should all with lowly Congies Laurels 
bring, 

Waste Floraes Magazine to find a wreathe ; 

Or Pineus Banks 'twere too mean offering, 

Your Muse a fairer Garland doth be- 
queath 60 

To guard your fairer front; here 'tis your 
name 

Shall stand immarbled; this your little 
frame 

Shall great Colossus be, to your eternal 
fame. 



i 



SONGS, EPIGRAMS AND ELEGIES 



15 



I'le please my self, though I my self dis- 
grace, 

What errors here be found, are in Erra- 
taes place. 

J. ROGERS.I 



ACROSTIC ON WILLIAM PADDY 

One, who was well acquainted with his 
worth and gracious endowments, pre- 
sented this following, as a testimonial 
of his good respects for him.2 

W eep not dear wife, children, nor dear 

friends, 
I live a life of joys that never ends. 
L ove God, and fear him to end of your 

days : 
L ive unto him, but die to sin always. 
I n heavenly place of bhss my soul doth 

rest, 
A mong the saints and angtls I am blest; 
M uch better here, than in the world at 

best. 

P raising my God is now my great em- 
ploy, 

A bove such troubles as did me annoy. 

D id but my friends know what I here 
possess, 1° 

D oubtless it would cause them to mourn 
the less : 

Y our souls with mine e'er long shall 
meet in bliss. 

1658. 

^ These verses were not in the first edition. 
Their author was the son of the Rev. Nathaniel 
Rogers, of Ipswich. He was born in England 
in 1630, and came to America, with his father, 
in 1636. He graduated at Harvard College in 
1649, and studied both divinity and medicine. 
He preached at Ipswich for some time, but after- 
wards devoted himself altogether to the practice 
of medicine. In 1683, he succeeded the Rev. 
Urian Oakes as President of Harvard College. 
He died suddenly, July 2, 1684, the day after 
Commencement, during an eclipse of the sun. 
He had requested, in the previous December, 
that the Commencement exercises should be held 
a day earlier than usual, as he feared the 
eclipse might interfere with them. — Mather 
Papers. Cotton Mather says, "He was One of 
so sweet a Temper, that the Title of Deliciae 
humani Generis might have on that Score been 
given him; and his Real Piety set off with the 
Accomplishments of a Gentlemen, as a Gem set 
in Gold." — Magnalia, iv. p. 130. 

His wife, Elizabeth Denison, was the only 
daughter of Major-General Daniel Denison and 
Patience Dudley, and therefore Mrs. Brad- 
street's niece. (Printed with this note in 
"Works of Anne Bradstreet," ed. J. H. Ellis.) 

2 Nathaniel Morton's "New England's Memo- 
rial." See year 1658. 



UPON THE AUTHOR 

By a known Friend 

(Anne Bradstreet) 

Now I believe Tradition, which doth call 
The Muses, Virtues, Graces, Females all; 
Only they are not nine, eleven nor three; 
Our Auth'ress proves them but one unity. 
Mankind take up some blushes on the 

score ; 
Monopolize perfection no more; 
In your own Arts, confess your selves 

out-done. 
The Moon hath totally eclips'd the Sun, 
Not with her sable Mantle muffling him ; 
But her bright silver makes his gold look 

dim : lo 

Just as his beams force our pale lamps 

to wink, 
And earthly Fires, within their ashes 

shrink. 

B.W.3 

A FUNERAL ELEGY UPON THE 
DEATH OF THE TRULY REV- 
EREND MR. JOHN COTTON, 
LATE TEACHER OF THE 
CHURCH OF CHRIST AT BOS- 
TON, IN NEW-ENGLAND 

By the Rev. John Norton 

And after Winthrop's, Hooker's, Shep- 
herd's herse. 

Doth Cotton's death call for a mourning 
verse? 

Thy will be done. Yet Lord, who dealest 
thus, 

Make this great death expedient for us. 

Luther pull'd down the Pope, Calviu the 
Prelate slew : 

3 These initials, which appeared for the first 
time in the second edition, are thought to be 
those of the Rev. Benjamin Woodbridge, D.D., 
brother of the Rev. John Woodljridge. He was 
born in England, and after having studied at 
Magdalen College, Oxford, came to join his 
brother, and some other relations, in this coun- 
try. He entered Harvard College, and his name 
stands first on the list of graduates. He was 
among the first settlers of the town of An- 
dover; but he soon returned to England, where 
he succeeded the Rev. William Twiss, D.D., as 
minister of Newbury, in Berkshire. He held 
that position until his death in 1684, a period 
of about forty years. His learning, ability and 
goodness have been highly eulogized. (Printed 
with this note in "Works of Anne Bradstreet," 
ed. J. H. Ellis.) 



16 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Of Calvin's lapse, chief cure to Cotton's 

due. 
Cotton, whose learning, temper, godliness, 
The German Phoenix, lively did express. 
Melancthon's all, may Luther's word but 

pass ; 9 

Melancthon's all, in our great Cotton was. 
Than him in flesh, scarce dwelt a better 

one; 
So great's our loss, when such a spirit's 

gone. 
Whilst he was here, life was more life 

to me; 
Now he is not, death hence less death 

shall be. 
That comets, great men's deaths do oft 

forego. 
This present comet^ doth too sadly show. 
This prophet dead, yet must in's doctrine 

speak. 
This comet saith, else must New-England 

break. 
Whate'er it be, the heavens avert it far, 
That meteors should succeed our greatest 

star. 20 

In Boston's orb, Winthrop and Cotton 

were; 
These' lights extinct, dark is our hemi- 
sphere. 
In Boston once how much shin'd of our 

glory. 
We now lament, posterity will story. 
Let Boston live, who had, and .saw their 

worth ; 
And did them honour, both in life and 

death. 
To him New-England trust in this distress, 
Who will not leave his exiles comfortless. 

1652. 

THRENODIA ON SAMUEL STONE 

A Threnodia upon our churches second dark 
eclipse, happening July 20, 1663, by death's inter- 
position between us and that great light and 
divine plant, Mr. Samuel Stone, late of Hart- 
ford, in New-England. 

By Edward Bulkley(?) 

Last spring this summer may be autumn 

styl'd, 
Sad withering fall our beauties which de- 

spoil'd : 

* About the time of his sickness there ap- 
peared in the heavens, over New England, a 
comet, giving a dim light; and so waxed dim- 
mer and dimmer, until it became quite extinct 
and went out; which time of its being extinct, 
was soon after the time of the period of his 
life. 

(Printed with this note in Nathaniel Morton's 
"New England's Memorial." See year 1652.) 



Two choicest plants, our Norton and our 

Stone, 
Your justs threw down; remov'd, away 

are gone. 
One year brought Stone and Norton to 

their mother. 
In one year, April, July, them did smother. 
Dame Cambridge, mother to this darling 

son; 
Emanuel, Northampt that heard this one, 
Essex, our bay, Hartford, in sable clad, 9 
Come bear your parts in this Threnodia sad. 
In losing one, church many lost : O then 
Many for one come be sad singing men. 
Man nature, grace and art be found in one 
So high, as to be found in few or none. 
In him these three with full fraught hand 

contested, 
With which by each he should be most 

invested. 
The largess of the three, it was so great 
On him, the stone was held a light com- 

pleat. 
A stone more than the Ebenezer fam'd ; 
Stone splendent diamond, right orient 

nam'd ; ^o 

A cordial stone, that often cheered hearts 
With pleasant wit, with Gospel rich im- 
parts ; 
Whetstone, that edgify'd th' obtusest 

mind; 
Loadstone,that drew the iron heart unkind ; 
A pondrous stone, that would the bottom 

sound 
Of Scripture depths, and bring out Ar- 

can's found. 
A stone for kingly David's use so fit. 
As would not fail Goliah's front to hit; 
A stone, an antidote, that brake the course 
Of gangrene errour, by convincing force; 
A stone acute, fit to divide and square; 
A squared stone became Christ's building 

rare. 32 

A Peter's living, lively stone (so rear'd) 
As 'live, was Hartford's Hfe; dead, death 

is fear'd. 
In Hartford old. Stone first drew infant 

breath. 
In New, eflFus'd his last: O ther beneath 
His corps are laid, near to his darling 

brother 
Of whom dead oft he sigh'd. Not such 

another. 
Heaven is the more desirable, said he, 39 
For Hooker, Shepard, and Haynes's com- 
pany. 

1663. 

In Nathaniel Morton's "New England's Memo- 
rial." See year 1663. 



SONGS, EPIGRAMS AND ELEGIES 



17 



BACON'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIS 

MAN 

Death, why so cruel? What! no other 

way 
To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay 
Our hopes of safety, lilaerty, our all. 
Which, through thy tyranny, with him 

must fall 
To its late chaos? Had thy rigid force 
Been dealt by retail, and not thus in gross. 
Grief had been silent. Now we must com- 
plain. 
Since thou, in him, hast more than thou- 
sand slain. 
Whose lives and safeties did so much 

depend 
On him their life, with him their lives 
must end. ^° 

I ft be a sin to think Death brib'd can be 
We must be guilty ; say 'twas bribery 
Guided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes. 
To whom for secret crimes just vengeance 

owes 
Deserved plagues, dreading their just de- 
sert, 
Corrupted Death by Paracelsian art 
Him to destroy; whose well tried courage 

such, 
Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor 
strength could touch. 
Who now must heal those wounds, or 
stop that blood 
The Heathen made, and drew into a 
flood? 20 

Who is't must plead our cause? nor 

trump nor drum 
Nor Deputations ; these, alas ! are dumb 
And cannot speak. Our Arms (though 

ne'er so strong) 
Will want the aid of his commanding 
tongue, 



Which conquer'd more than Caesar. He 
o'erthrew 

Only the outward frame : this could sub- 
due 

The rugged works of nature. Souls re- 
plete 

With dull chill cold, he'd animate with 
heat 

Drawn forth of reason's limbec. In a 
word, 29 

Mars and Minerva both in him concurred 

For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword 
alike 

As Cato's did, may admiration strike 

Into his foes ; while they confess withal 

It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal. 

Only this difference does from truth pro- 
ceed : 

They in the guilt, he in the name must 
bleed. 

While none shall dare his obsequies to 
sing 

In deserv'd measures'; until time shall 
bring 

Truth crown'd with freedom, and from 
danger free 

To sound his praises to posterity. 4° 

Here let him rest; while we this truth 
report 

He's gone from hence unto a higher 
Court 

To plead his cause, where he by this doth 
know 

Whether to Caesar he was friend, or foe. 

Cir. 1676. 

In an anonymous account of "Bacon's Re- 
bellion" called the "Burwell Papers," in pos- 
session of a Virginia family of that name. 
Reprinted in Mass. Hist. Soc. Collections, series 
II, vol. 1; and more correctly in the Proceed- 
ings for 1866-67. 



MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH 

(1631-1705) 



(The text is taken from the edition of 1673.) 
THE DAY OF DOOM 

(The Day of Doom; or, a Poetical Description 
of the Great and Last Judgment.) 

SOUNDING OF THE LAST TRUMP 

Still was the night, Serene & Bright, 

when all Men sleeping lay; 
Calm was the season, & carnal reason 

thought so 'twould last for ay. 
Soul, take thine ease, let sorrow cease, 

much good thou hast in store: 
This was their Song, their Cups among, 

the Evening before. 

Wallowing in all kind of sin, '° 

vile wretches lay secure: 
The best of men had scarcely then 

their Lamps kept in good ure. 
Virgins unwise, who through disguise 

amongst the best were number'd _ 
Had clos'd their eyes ; yea, and the wise 

through sloth and frailty slumber d. 

Like as of old, when Men grow bold 

God's threatenings to contemn. 
Who stop their Ear, and would not hear, 

vvrhen Mercy warned them: 2° 

But took their course without remorse, 

till God began to powre 
Destruction the World upon 

in a tempestuous showre. 

They put away the evil day, 

and drown'd their care and fears. 
Till drown'd were they, and swept away 

by vengeance unawares : 
So at the last, whilst Men sleep fast 

in their security, ^° 

Surpriz'd they are in such a snare 

as cometh suddenly. 

For at midnight brake forth a Light, 

which turn'd the night to day. 
And speedily an hideous cry 

did all the world dismay. 
Sinners awake, their hearts do ake, 

trembhng their loynes surprizeth ; 
Amaz'd with fear, by what they hear, 

each one of them ariseth. 4o 

They rush from Beds with giddy heads, 
and to their windows run, 



Viewing this light, which shines more 
Ijright 
then doth the Noon-day Sun 
Straightway appears (they see't with 
tears) 
the Son of God most dread; 
Who with his Train comes on amain 
to Judge both Quick and Dead. 

Before his face the Heav'ns gave place, 

and Skies are rent asunder, _ so 

With mighty voice, and hideous noise, 

more terrible than Thunder. 
His brightness damps heav'ns glorious 
lamps 

and makes them hide their heads. 
As if afraid and quite dismay'd, 

they quit their wonted steads. 

Ye sons of men that durst contemn 

the Threatnings of Gods Word. 
How cheer you now? your heaits, I trow, 

are thrill'd as with a sword, ^° 

Now Athist blind, whose brutish mind 

a God could never see, 
Dost thou perceive, dost now believe 

that Christ thy judge shall be? 

Stout Courages, (whose hardiness 

could Death and Hell out-face) 
Are 3'ou as bold now you behold 

your Judge draw near apace? 
They cry, no, no : Alas ! and wo ! 

our courage all is gone : "° 

Our hardiness (fool hardiness) 

hath us undone, undone. 

No heart so bold, but now grows cold 

and almost dead with fear : 
No eye so dry, but now can cry, 

and pour out many a tear. 
Earth's Potentates and pow'rful States, 

Captains and Men of Might 
Are quite abasht, their courage dasht 

at this most dreadful sight. 80 

Mean men lament, great men do rent 

their Robes, and tear their hair: 
They do not spare their flesh to tear 

through horrible despair. 
All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail: 

horror the World doth fill 
With weeping eyes, and loud out-cnes, 

yet knows not how to kill. 



18 



MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH 



19 



Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves, 

in places underground : 9° 

Some rashly leap into the Deep, 

to scape by being drown'd : 
Some to the Rocks (O senseless blocks!) 

and woody Mountains run, 
That there they might this fearful sight, 

and dreaded Presence shun. 

In vain do they to Mountains say, 

fall on us and us hide 
From Judges ire, more hot than fire, 

for who may it abide? i°° 

No hiding place can from his Face 

sinners at all conceal, 
Whose flaming Eye hid thingb doth 'spy 

and darkest things reveal. 

The Judge draws nigh, exalted high, 

upon a lofty Throne, 
Amidst the throng of Angels strong, 

lo, Israel's Holy One ! 
The excellence of whose presence 

and awful Majesty, "o 

Amazeth Nature, and every Creature, 

doth more than terrify. 

The Mountains smoak, the Hills are shook, 

the Earth is rent and torn. 
As if she should be clear dissolv'd, 

or from the Center born. 
The Sea doth roar, forsakes the shore, 

and shrinks away for fear ; 
The wild beasts flee into the Sea, 

so soon as he draws near. 120 

Whose Glory bright, whose wondrous 
might, 

whose power Imperial, 
So far surpass whatever was 

in Realms Terrestrial; 
That tongues of men (nor angels pen) 

cannot the same express, 
And therefore I must pass it by, 

lest speaking should transgress. 

Before his Throne a Trump is blown, 

Proclaiming the day of Doom : 130 

Forthwith he cries, Ye dead arise, 

and unto Judgment come. 
No sooner said, but 'tis obey'd; 

Sepulchres opened are : 
Dead bodies all rise at his call, 

and 's mighty power declare. 

Both Sea and Land, at his Command, 
their Dead at once surrender : 

The Fire and Air constrained are 
also their dead to tender. 140 



The mighty word of this great Lord 
links Body and Soul together 

Both of the Just, and the unjust, 
to part no more for ever. 

The same translates, from Mortal states 

to Immortality, 
All that survive, and be alive, 

i' th' twinkling of an eye : 
That so they may abide for ay 

to endless weal or woe; ^so 

Both the Renate and Reprobate 

are made to dy no moe. 

His winged Hosts flie through all Coasts, 

together gethering 
Both good and bad, both quick and dead, 

and all to Judgment bring. 
Out of their holes those creeping Moles, 

that hid themselves for fear, 
By force they take, and quickly make 

before the Judge appear. 160 

Thus every one before the Throne 

of Christ the Judge is brought. 
Both righteous and impious 

that good or ill hath wrought. 
A separation, and diff'ring station 

by Christ appointed is 
(To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad, 

'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss. 



SENTENCE AND TORMENT OF 
THE CONDEMNED 

Where tender love mens hearts did move 

unto a sympathy. 
And bearing part of others smart 

in their anxiety; 
Now such compassion is out of fashion, 

and wholly laid aside : 
No Friends so near, but Saints to hear 

their Sentence can abide. 

One natural Brother beholds another 

in his astonied fit, 1° 

Yet sorrows not thereat a jot, 

nor pities him a whit. 
The godly wife conceives no grief, 

nor can she shed a tear 
For the sad state of her dear Mate, 

when she his doom doth hear. 

He that was erst a Husband pierc't 
with sense of Wives distress. 

Whose tender heart did bear a part 
of all her grievances, 20 



20 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Shall mourn no more as heretofore 

because of her ill plight; 
Although he see her now to be 

a damn'd forsaken wight. 

The tender Mother will own no other 

of all her numerous brood, 
But such as stand at Christ's right hand 

acquitted through his Blood. 
The pious father had now much rather 

his graceless son should ly 3o 

In Hell with Devils, for all his evils, 

burning eternally. 

Then God most high should injury, 

by sparing him sustain; 
And doth rejoice to hear Christ's voice 

adjudging him to pain. 
Who having all both great and small, 

convinc'd and silenced, 
Did then proceed their Doom to read, 

and thus it uttered. 4° 

Ye sinful wights, and cursed sprights, 

that work iniquity, 
Depart together from me for ever 

to endless Misery; 
Your portion take in yonder Lake, 

where Fire and Brimstone fiameth : 
Suffer the smart, which your desert 

as it's due wages claimeth. 

Oh piercing words more sharp than 
swords ! 

what, to depart from thee, 5° 

Whose face before for evermore 

the best of Pleasures be ! 
What? to depart (unto our smart) 

from thee Eternally : 
To be for aye banish'd away, 

with Devils company ! 

What? to be sent to Punishment, 

and flames of Burning Fire, 
To be surrounded, and eke confounded 

with Gods Revengeful ire ! 6o 

What? to abide, not for a tide 

these Torments, but for Ever: 
To be released, or to be eased, 

not after years, but Never. 

Oh fearful Doom ! now there's no room 

for hope of help at all: 
Sentence is past which aye shall last, 

Christ will not it recall. 
There might you hear them rent and tear 

the Air with their out-cries : 7° 

The hideous noise of their sad voice 

ascendeth to the Skies. 



They wring their hands, their caitiff-hands, 

and gnash their teeth for terrour; 
They cry, they roar for anguish sore, 

and gnaw their tongues for horrour. 
But get away without delay, 

Christ pities not your cry : 
Depart to Hell, there may you yell, 

and roar Eternally. 8o 

That word. Depart, maugre their heart, 

drives every wicked one, 
With mighty pow'r, the self-same hour, 

far from the Judge's Throne. 
Away they're chast'd by the strong blast 

of his Death-threatning mouth : 
They flee full fast, as if in haste, 

although they be full loath. 

As chaff that's dry, and dust doth fly 

before the Northern wind : 9c 

Right so are they chased away, 

and can no Refuge find. 
They hasten to the Pit of Woe, 

guarded by Angels stout; 
Who to fulfil Christ's holy will, 

attend this wicked Rout. 



Whom having brought as they are taught, 

unto the brink of Hell, 
(That dismal place far from Christ' face,. 

where Death and Darkness dwell: ^°<- 
Where God's fierce Ire kindleth the fire, 

and vengeance feeds the flame 
With piles of Wood and Brimstone Flood 

that none can quench the same.) 



9 

t 



With iron bands they bind their hands, 

and cursed feet together. 
And cast them all both great and small, 

into the Lake for ever. 
Where day and night, without respite, 

they wail, and cry, and howl "o 

For tort'ring pain which, they sustain 

in body and in Soul. 



fl 



For day and night, in their despight, 

their torments smoak ascendeth. 
Their pain and grief have no relief, 

their anguish never endeth. 
There must they ly, and never dy, 

though dying every day : 
There must they dying ever ly, 

and not consume away. 120 

Dy fain they would, if dy they could, 

but death will not be had. 
God's direful wrath their bodies hath 

for ev'r Immortal made. 



MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH 



21 



They live to ly in misery, 

and bear eternal wo ; 
And live they must whilst God is just, 

that he may plague them so. 

But who can tell the plagues of Hell, 

and torments exquisite? ^3° 

Who can relate their dismal state, 

and terrours infinite? 
Who fare the best, and feel the least, 

yet feel that punishment 
Whereby to nought they should be brought, 

if God did not prevent. 

The least degree of misery 

there felt's incomparable. 
The lightest pain they there sustain 

more than intolerable. 14° 

But God's great pow'r from hour to hour 

upholds them in the fire. 
That they shall not consume a jot, 

nor by it's force expire. 



THE SAINTS ASCEND TO HEAVEN 

The Saint's behold with courage bold, 

and thankful wonderment. 
To see all those that were their foes 

thus sent to punishment : 
Then do they sing unto their King 

a Song of endless Praise : 
They praise his Name, and do proclaim 

that just are all his ways. 

Thus with great joy and melody 

to Heav'n they all ascend, i° 

Him there to praise with sweetest layes, 

and Hymns that never end. 
Where with long rest they shall be blest, 

and nought shall them annoy : 
Where they shall see as seen they be, 

and whom they love enjoy. 

O glorious Place ! where face to face 

Jehovah may be seen. 
By such as were sinners while here 

and no dark veil between. 20 

Where the Sun shine and light Divine, 

of Gods bright countenance. 
Doth rest upon them every one, 

with sweetest influence. 

O blessed state of the Renate! 

O wond'rous Happiness, 
To which they're brought beyond what 
thought 

can reach, or words express ! 



Griefs water-course, and sorrows source, 
are turn'd to joyful streams. 30 

Their old distress and heaviness 
are vanished like dreams. 

For God above in arms of love 

doth dearly them embrace. 
And fills their sprights with such delights, 

and pleasures in his grace; 
As shall not fail, nor yet grow stale 

through frequency of use: 
Nor do they fear Gods favour there, 

to forfeit by abuse. 4° 

For there the Saints are perfect Saints, 

and holy ones indeed, 
From all the sin that dwelt within 

their mortal bodies freed : 
Made Kings and Priests to God through 
Christs 

dear loves transcendency. 
There to remain and there to reign 

with him Eternally. 

1662. 

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES 

I walk'd and did a little Mole-hill view 
Full peopled with a most industrious crew 
Of busie Ants, where each one labour'd 

more 
Than if he were to bring home Indian Ore ; 
Here wrought the Pioneers, there march'd 

the Bands, 
Here Colonies went forth to plant new 

Lands : 
These hasted out, and those supplies 

brought in. 
As if they had some sudden Seige fore- 
seen : 
Until there came an angry spade, and cast 
Country and People to a Pit at last. 1° 
Again, I viewed a Kingdom in a Hive, 
Where every one did work, and so all 

thrive; 
Some go, some come, some war, some 

watch and ward 
Some make the works, and some the 

works do guard. 
These frame their curious waxen cells, 

and those 
Do into them their Nectar drops dispose : 
Until the greedy Gardner brought his 

smoke, 
And, for their work, did all the workmen 

choke. 
So here, frail Mortals may fit Emblems 

see 
Of their great toil and greater vanity. 20 



22 



AMERICAN POETRY 



They weary out their brains, their strength, 

their time, 
While some to Arts, and some to Honours 

climb : 
They search earth's bowels, cross the rag- 
ing seas, 
Mortgage their Souls, and forfeit all their 

ease, 
Grudge night her sleep, and lengthen out 

the day, 
To fat those bags, and cram those chests 

with clay, 
They rack and charm each creature to 

explore 
Some latent Quintessence, not known be- 
fore : 
Torture and squeeze out all its juice and 

blood, 29 

To try if they can now iind out that 

Good 
Which Solomon despair'd of, but at last 
On the same shore of Vanity are cast; 
The spade stops their career of Pride and 

Lust, 
And calls them from their Clay into their 

Dust. 
Leave off your Circles, Archimede, away, 
The King of Terrour calls, and will not " 

stay: 
Miser, kiss all your Bags, and then ly 

down; 
Scholar, your Books ; Monarch, yield up 

your Crown : 
Give way, Wealth, Honour, Arts, Thrones, 

• back, make room. 
That these pale souls may come into their 

doom. 40 

No[w] shew vain men the fruit of all 

that pain 
Which in the end nothing but Loss did 

gain: 
Compute your lives, and all your hours 

up cast, 
So here's the total sum of all at last. 
I rose up early, sat up late, to know, 
As much as man, as tongues, as books 

could show ; 
I toil'd to search all Science and all Art, 
But died ignorant of mine own Heart. 
I got great Honour, and my Fame did 

stream. 
As far as doth the Mornings shining 

Beam ; 5° 

My Name into a page of Titles swell'd, 
My head a Crown, my hand a Scepter 

held: 
Ador'd without, but shameful lusts within ; 
With anxious thoughts, with saddest 

cares and cost 



I gain'd these Lordships, and this Soul I 

lost. 
My greedy Heir now hovers o're my pelf, 
I purchase Land for him, Hell for myself. 
Go on you noble Brains, and fill your 

sight 
As full of learning as the Sun's of light; 
Expand your Souls to Truth as wide as 

Day, ^ 

Know all that Men, know all that Angels 

say: 
Write shops of Volumns, and let every 

Book 
Be fill'd with lustre as was Moses look : 
Yet know, all this is but a better kind 
Of sublime vanity, and more refin'd: 
Except a saving knowledge crown the rest 
Devils know more, and yet shall ne'r be 

blest. _ _ - 

Go on, ambitious worms, yet, yet aspire. 

Lay a sure scene how you may yet rise 

higher : 
March forward, Macedonian Morn, add 

on _ 70 

Gaza to Tyre, Indies to Babylon ; 
Make stirrups of the peoples backs and 

bones, 
Climb up by them to Diadems and _ 

Thrones : - ■ 

Thy crowns are all but grass, thine wasT 

the toil. 
Thy captains come, and they divide the 

spoil. 
Except one heav'nly Crown crown all the j 

rest 
Devils are Poutentates, and yet not blest. 
Go on, base dunghil-souls, heap gold asj 

mire. 
Sweep silver as the dust, emulate Tyre, 
Fill every Ware-house, purchase every 

Field, _ So 

Add house to house, Pelion on Ossa build 
Get Mida's vote to transubstantiate 
Whate're you please all into golden plate; 
Build wider barns, sing requiem to your 

heart. 
Feel your wealths pleasures only, not their 

smart. 
Except his Riches who for us was poor. 
Do sweeten those which Mortals so adore ; 
Except sublimer wealth crown all the 

rest. 
Devils have nobler Treasures, yet not blest. 
Cease then from vain delights, and let 

your mind 9o 

That solid and enduring Good to find, 
Which sweetens life and death, which will 

encrease 
On an immortal Soul, immortal peace; 



MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH 



23 



Which will replenish and advance you 

higher 
Then e're.your own Ambition could as- 
pire. 
Fear your great Maker with a child-like 

aw, 
Believe his Grace, love and obey his Law. 
This is the total work of man, and this, 
Will crown you here with Peace, and there 

with Bliss. 
Be kind unto your selves, believe and 

try : ^°° 

If not, go on, fill up your lusts and die. 
Sing peace unto your selves; 't will once 

be known 
Whose word shall stand your judg's or 

your own. 
Crown thee with Rose-buds, satiate thine 

eyes 



Glut every sense with her own vanities : 
Melt into pleasures, until that which Lust 
Did not before co[n]sume, rot into dust: 
The Thrones are set, the Books will strait 

be read, 
Hell will her souls, and gravs give up 

their dead; 
Then there will be (and the time is not 

far) no 

Fire on the Bench, and Stubble at the Bar. 

O sinners ruminate these thoughts agen 

You have been Beasts enough, at last be 

Men 
Christ yet entreats, but if you will not 

turn 
Where grace will not convert, there fire 

will burn. 

1673. 



R. LEWIS 

(dates unknown) 

A JOURNEY FROM PATAPSCO IN And brightens into Pearls the pendent 

MARYLAND TO ANNAPOLIS, Dews. _ . , . 

APRTT 4 1710 Beasts uprising, quit their leafy 

' Beds, 

At length the wintry Horrors disappear, And to the cheerful Sun erect their 

And April views with Srniles the infant Heads ; 

Year; All joyful rise, except the filthy Swine, 3° 

The grateful Earth from frosty Chains On obscene Litter stretch'd they snore 

unbound, '^ supine : 

Pours out its vernal Treasures all around. In vain the Day awakes, Sleep seals their 

Her Face bedeckt with Grass, with Buds Eyes, 

the Trees are crown'd. Till Hunger breaks the Band and bids 

In this soft Season, 'ere the Dawn of Day, them rise. 

I mount my Horse, and lonely take my Meanwhile the Sun with more exalted 

Way, Ray. 

From woody Hills that shade Patapsco's From cloudless Skies distributes riper 

Head Day ; 

(In whose deep Vales he makes his stony Thro' sylvan Scenes my Journey I pursue. 

Bed, Ten thousand Beauties rising to my View; 

From whence he rushes with resistless Which kindle in my Breast poetic Flame, 

Force, '° And bid me my Ovafor'.y Praise proclaim; 

Tho' huge rough Rocks retard his rapid Tho' my low Verse ill-suits the noble 

Course,) Theme. 4° 

Down to Annapolis, on that smooth Here various Flourets grace the teem- 

Stream ing Plains, 

Which took from fair Anne-Ariindcl its Adorn'd by Nature's Hand with beauteous 

Name. Stains. 

And now the Stari that ushers in the First born of Spring, here the Paco,ie ap- 

Day, pears, 
"Begins to pale her ineffectual Ray ["]. Whose golden Root a silver Blossom rears. 
The Moon with blunted Horns, now In spreading Tufts, see there the Crow- 
shines less bright, foot blue, 
Her fading Face eclips'd with growing On whose green Leaves still shines a 

Light ; globous Dew ; 

The fleecy Clouds with streaky Lustre Behold the Cinque-foil, with its dazling 

glow, Dye 

And day quits Heav'n to view the Earth Of flaming Yellow, wounds the tender 

below. Eye. 

O'er yon tall Pines the Sun shews half But there enclos'd the grassy Wheat is 

his Face, ^ seen-. 

And fires their floating Foliage with his To heal the aching Sight with cheerful 

Rays : Green. so 

Now sheds aslant on earth his lightsome Safe in yon Cottage dwells the Monarch 

Beams, Swain, 

That trembling shine in many-colour'd His Subject Flocks, close-grazing hide the 

Streams. Plain ; 

Slow-rising from the Marsh, the Mist re- For him they live; and die t' uphold his 

cedes, • Reign. 

The Trees, emerging, rear their dewy Viands unbought his well-till'd Lands 

Heads ; afford. 

Their dewy Heads the Sun with Pleasure And smiling Plenty waits upon his Board ; 

views, Health shines with sprightly Beams 

^ Venus. around his Head, 

24 



R. LEWIS 



25 



And Sleep, with downy Wings, o'ershades 

his bed, 
His Sons robust his daily Labours share, 
Patient of Toil, Companions of his 

Care. 
And all their Toils with sweet Success 

are crown'd. 60 

In graceful Banks there Trees adorn the 

Ground, 
The Peach, the Plum, the Apple, here are 

found 
Delicious Fruits ! — Which from their Ker- 
nels rise. 
So fruitful is the Soil — so mild the Skies. 
The lowly Quince yon sloping Hill o'er- 
shades, 
Here lofty Cherry-Trees erect their 

Heads; 
High in the Air each spiry Summit waves, 
Whose Blooms thick-springing yield no 

Space for Leaves ; 
Evolving Odours fill the ambient Air, 69 
The Birds delighted to the Groves repair : 
On ev'ry Tree behold a tuneful Throng, 
The vocal Vallies echo to their Song. 
But what is He,'^ who perch'd above the 

rest, 
Pours out such various Musick from his 

Breast ! 
His Breast, whose Plumes a cheerful 

White display. 
His quiv'ring Wings are dress'd in sober 

Grey. 
Sure all the Muses, this their Bird in- 
spire ! 
And he, alone, is equal to the Choir 
Of warbling Songsters who around him 

play. 
While, Echo like, He answers ev ry Lay. ^o 
The chirping Lark now sings with 

sprightly Note 
Responsive to her Strain He shapes his 

Throat, 
Now the poor widow'd Turtle wails her 

Mate, 
While in soft Sounds He cooes to mourn 

his Fate. 
Oh sweet Musician, thou dost far excel 
The soothing Song of pleasing Philomel! 
Sweet is her Song, but in few Notes con- 

fin'd ; 
But thine, thou Mimic of the feath'ry 

Kind, 
Runs thro' all Notes ! — Thou only know'st 

them All, 
At once the Copy — and th' Original. 9° 
My Ear thus charm'd, my Eye with 

Pleasure sees 
1 The Mock-Bird. 



Hov'ring about the Flow'rs th' industrious 
Bees. 

Like them in Size, the Humming Birds I 
view. 

Like them, He sucks his Food, the Honey 
Dew, 

With nimble Tongue, and Beak of jetty 
Hue. 

He takes with rapid Whirl his noisy 
Flight, 

His gemmy Plumage strikes the Gazer's 
Sight; 

And as he moves his ever-flutt'ring Wings, 

Ten thousand Colours he around him 
flings. 99 

Now I behold the Em'rald's vivid Green, 

Now scarlet, now a purple Die is seen ; 

In brightest Blue, his Breast He now 
arrays. 

Then strait his Plumes emit a golden 
Blaze. 

Thus whirring round he flies, and vary- 
ing still 

He mocks the Poet's and the Painter's 
Skill; 

Who. may forever strive with fruitless 
Pains, 

To catch and fix those beauteous change- 
ful Stains ; 

While _ Scarlet now, and now the Purple 
shines, 

And Gold to Blue its transient Gloss re- 
signs. 

Each quits, and quickly each resumes its 
Place, "0 

And ever-varying Dies each other chase. 

Smallest of Birds, what Beauties shine in 
thee ! 

A living Rainbow on thy Breast I see. 

Oh had that Bard,^ in whose heart-pleas- 
ing Lines, 

The Phoenix in a Blaze of Glory shines, 

Beheld those Wonders which are shewn 
in Thee, 

That Bird had lost his Immortality! 

Thou in His verse hadst stretch'd thy 
flutt'ring Wing 

Above all other Birds, — their beauteous 
King. 
But now th' enclos'd Plantation I for- 
sake, 120 

And onwards thro' the Woods my Jour- 
ney take; 

The level Road, the longsome Way be- 
guiles, 

A blooming Wilderness around me smiles ; 

Here hardy Oak, there fragrant Hick'ry 
grows 

^ Claudian, 



26 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Their bursting Buds the tender Leaves 

disclose; 
The tender Leaves in downy Robes ap- 
pear, 
Trembhng, they seem to move w^ith cau- 
tious Fear, 
Yet new to Life, and Strangers to the Air. 
Here stately Pines unite their whisp'ring 

Heads, 130 

And with a solemn Gloom embrown the 

Glades. 
See there a green Savana opens wide, 
Thro' which smooth Streams in wanton 

Mazes glide; 
Thick-branching Shrubs o'erhang the sil- 
ver Streams, 
Which scarcely deign t' admit the solar 

Beams. 
While with Delight on this soft Scene 

I gaze, 
The Cattle upward look, and cease to 

graze, 
But into Covert run thro' various Ways. 
And now the Clouds in black Assemblage 

rise, 
And dreary Darkness overspreads the 

Skies, 140 

Thro' which the Sun strives to transmit 

his Beams, 
"But sheds his sickly Light in straggling 

Streams. 
Hush'd is the Musick of the wood-land 

Choir, 
Fore-knowing of the Storm, the Birds 

retire 
For Shelter, and forsake the shrubby 

Plains, 
And a dumb Horror, thro' the Forest 

reigns ; 
In that lone House which opens wide 

its Door, 
Safe maly I tarry till the Storm is o'er. 
Hark how the Thunder rolls with solemn 

Sound ! 
And see the forceful Lightning dart a 

Wound ISO 

On yon tall Oak! — Behold its Top laid 

bare ! 
Its Body rent, and scatter'd thro' the Air 
The Splinters fly ! — Now — now the Winds 

arise. 
From different Quarters of the low'ring 

Skies; 
Forth issuing fierce, the West and South 

engage. 
The waving Forest bends beneath their 

Rage: 
But where the winding Valley checks their 

Course, 



They roar and ravage with redoubled 
Force ; 

With circling sweep in dreadful Whirl- 
winds move 

And from its Roots tear up the gloomy 
Grove, 160 

Down rushing fall the Trees, and beat the 
Ground 

In Fragments flie the shatter'd Limbs 
around ; 

Tremble the Underwoods, the Vales re- 
sound. 
Follows, with patt'ring Noise the icy 
Hail, 

And Rain, fast falling, floods the lowly 
Vale. 

Again the Thunders roll, the Lightnings 

fly, 

And as they first disturb'd, now clear 

the Sky; 
For lo ! the Gust decreases by Degrees, 
The dying Winds but sob amidst the 

Trees; 
With pleasing Softness falls the silver 

Rain, 170 

Thro' which at first faint gleaming o'er 

the Plain, 
The Orb of Light scarce darts a wat'ry 

Ray 
To gild the Drops that fall from ev'ry 

Spray ; 
But soon the dusky Vapours are dispell'd, 
And thro' the Mist that late his Face 

conceal'd, 
Bursts the broad Sun, triumphant in a 

Blaze 
Too keen for Sight — Yon Cloud refracts 

his Rays; 
The mingling Beams compose th' etherial 

Bow, 
How sweet, how soft, its melting Colours 

glow ! 179 

Gaily they shine, by heav'nly Pencils laid, 
Yet vanish swift — How soon does Beauty 

fade! 
The Storm is past, my Journey I renew. 
And a new Scene of Pleasure greets my 

View : 
Wash'd by the copious Rain the gummy 

Pine, 
Does cheerful, with unsully'd Verdure 

shine! 
The Dogwood Flow'rs assume a snowy 

white, 
The Maple blushing gratifies the Sight : 
No verdant leaves the lovely Red-Bud 

grace. 
Carnation Blossoms now supply their 

Place. 189 



R. LEWIS 



27 



The Sassafras unfolds its fragrant Bloom, 

The Vine affords an exquisite Perfume. 

These grateful Scents wide-wafting thro' 
the Air 

The smelling Sense with balmy Odours 
cheer. 

And now the Birds, sweet singing, stretch 
their Throats, 

And in one Choir unite their Various 
Notes, 

Nor yet unpleasing is the Turtle's Voice, 

Tho' he complains while other Birds re- 
joice. 
These vernal Joys, all restless Thoughts 
controul, 

And gently soothing calm the troubled Soul. 
While such Delights my Senses enter- 
tain, f 

I scarce perceive that I have left the 
Plain; 

'Till now the Summit of a Mount I gain: 

Low at whose sandy Base the River 
glides, 

Slow-roUing near their Height his languid 
Tides; 

Shade above Shade, the Trees in nsmg 
Ranks, 

Cloath with eternal Green his steepy 

The Flood, well pleas'd, reflects their ver- 
dant Gleam 

From the smooth Mirror of his limpid 
Stream. 
But see the Hawk, who with acute Sur- 
vey, 

Tow'ring in Air predestinates his Prey 210 

Amid the Floods! — Down dropping from 
on high. 

He strikes the Fish, and bears him thro' 
the Sky. 

The Stream disturb'd no longer shews 
the Scene 

That lately stain'd its silver Waves with 
green ; 

In spreading Circles roll the troubled 
Floods, 

And to the Shores bear off the pictur'd 
Woods. 
Now looking round I view the out- 
sfretch'd Land, 

O'er which the Sight exerts a wide Com- 
mand ; ^'^ 

The fertile Vallies, and the naked Hills, 

The Cattle feeding near the chrystal Rills ; 

The Lawns wide-op'ning to the sunny Ray, 

And mazy Thickets that exclude the Day. 

Awhile the Eye is pleas'd these Scenes to 
trace. 

Then hurrying o'er the intermediate space, 



Far-distant Mountains drest in Blue ap- 
pear, 
And all their Woods are lost in empty Air. 
The Sun near setting now arrays his 
Head 
In milder Beams, and lengthens ev'ry 

Shade. 
The rising Clouds usurping on the Day 
A bright variety of Dies display; 230 

About the wide Horizon swift they fly, 
"And chase a Change of Colours round 

the Sky. 
And now I view but half the flaming 

Sphere, 
Now one faint Glimmer shoots along the 

Air, 
And all his golden Glories disappear. 
Onwards the Ev'ning moves in Habit 
grey, 
And for her Sister Night prepares the 

way. 
The plumy People seek their secret Nests, 
To Rest repair the ruminating Beasts ; 
Now deep'ning Shades confess th' Ap- 
proach of Night, 240 
Imperfect Images elude the Sight: 
From earthly Objects I remove mine Eye, 
And view with Look erect the vaulted 

Sky, 
Where dimly shining now the Stars ap- 
pear. 
At first thin-scatt'ring thro' the misty 

Air; 
Till Night confirm'd, her jetty Throne as- 
cends. 
On her the Moon in clouded State attends. 
But soon unveil'd her lovely Face is seen. 
And Stars unnumber'd wait around their 

Queen ; 
Rang'd by their Maker's Hand in just 

Array, 

They march majestic thro' th' etherial 

Way. 250 

Are these bright Luminaries hung on 

high 

Only to please with twinkling Rays our 

Eye? 
Or may we rather count each Star a Sun, 
Round which full peopled Worlds their 

Courses run? 
Orb above Orb harmoniously they steer 
Their various Voyages thro' Seas of Air. 
Snatch me some Angel to those high 
Abodes, 
The Seats perhaps of Saints and Demi- 
gods! 
Where such as bravely scorn'd the galling 
Yoke 2S9 



28 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Of vulgar Error, and her Fetters broke; 
Where Patriots, who to fix the pubhck 

Good, 
In Fields of Battle sacrific'd their Blood; 
Where pious Priests, who Charity pro- 

claim'd, 
And Poets whom a virtuous Muse en- 

flam'd ; 
Pliilosophers who strove to mend our 

Hearts, 
And such as polish'd Life with useful 

Arts, 
Obtain a Place; when by the Hand of 

Death 
Touch'd, they retire from this poor Speck 

of Earth; 
Their Spirits freed from bodily Alloy, 269 
Perceive a Fore-tast of that endless Joy, 
Which from Eternity hath been prepar'd. 
To crown their Labours with a vast Re- 
ward. 
While to these Orbs my wand'ring 

Thoughts aspire, 
A falling Meteor shoots his lambent Fire ; 
Thrown from the heav'nly Space he seeks 

the Earth, 
From whence he first deriv'd his humble 

Birth. 
The Mind advis'd by this instructive 

Sight, 
Descending sudden from th' aerial Height, 
Obliges me to view a different Scene, -79 
Of more importance to myself, tho' mean. 
These distant Objects I no more pursue. 
But turning inward my reflective View, 
My working Fancy helps me to survey 
In the just Picture of this April Day, 
My Life o'er past, — a Course of thirty 

Years, 
Blest with few joys, perplex'd with num'- 

rous Cares. 
In the dim Twilight of our Infancy, 
Scarce can the Eye surrounding Objects 

see. 
Then thoughtless Childhood leads us 

pleas'd and gay, -89 

In life's fair morning thro' a flow'ry Way: 
The Youth in Schools inquisitive of Good, 
Science pursues thro' Learning's mazy 

Wood ; 
Whole lofty Trees, he, to his Grief per- 
ceives. 
Are often bare of Fruit, and only fill'd 

with Leaves: 
Thro' lonely Wilds his tedious Journey lies. 
At last a brighter Prospect cheers his 

Eyes, 
Now the gay Fields of Poetry he views. 
And joyous listens to the tuneful Muse; 



Now IListory affords him vast Delight, 
And opens lovely Landscapes to his Sight: 
But ah ! too soon this Scene of Pleasure 

flies ; 301 

And o'er his Head tempestuous Troubles 

rise. 
He hears the Thunders roll, he feels the 

Rains, 
Before a friendly shelter he obtains; 
And thence beholds with Grief the furious 

Storm 
The noontide Beauties of his Life deform: 
He views the painted Bow in distant 

Skies ; 
Hence, in his heart some Gleams of Com- 
fort rise; 
He hopes the Gust has almost spent its 

Force, ' 
And that he safely may pursue his Course. 
Thus far my Life does with the Day 

agree, 3" 

Oh ! may its coming Stage from Storms 

be free. 
While passing thro' the World's most 

private Way, 
With Pleasure I my Maker's Works sur- 
vey; 
Within my Heart let Peace a Dwelling 

find. 
Let my Good-zvill extend to all Mankind: 
Freed from Necessity, and blest with 

Health; 
Give me Content, let others toil for 

Wealth. 
In busy Scenes of Life let me exert 
A careful Hand, and wear an honest 

Heart; 320 

And suffer me my leisure Hours to spend. 
With chosen Books, or a well-natur'd 

Friend, 
Thus journeying on, as I advance in Age 
May I look back with Pleasure on my 

Stage ; 
And as the setting Sun withdrew his 

Light 
To rise on other Worlds serene and 

bright. 
Cheerful may I resign my vital Breath, 
Nor anxious tremble at th' Approach of 

Death; 
Which shall (I hope) but strip me of 

my Clay, 
And to a better World my Soul convey. 330 
Thus musing, I my silent Moments 

spend. 
Till to the River's Margin I descend, 
From whence I may discern my Journey's 

End: 



R. LEWIS 



29 



Annapolis adorns its further Shore, 
To which the Boat attends to bear me o'er. 
And now the moving Boat the Flood 

divides, 
While the Stars "tremble on the floating 

Tides, ["]. 
Pleas'd with the Sight, again I raise mine 

Eye 
To the bright Glories of the azure Sky; 
And while these Works of God's creative 

Hand, 340 

The Moon and Stars, that move at his 

Command 
Obedient thro' their circling Course on 

high, 
Employ my Sight, — struck with amaze I 

cry. 
Almighty Lord! whom Heav'n and Earth 

proclaim 
The Author of their universal Frame. 
Wilt thou vouchsafe to view the Son of 

Man, 
The Creature, who but Yesterday began, 
Thro' animated Clay to draw his Breath, 
Tomorrow doom'd a Prey to ruthless 

Death ! 
Tremendous God! may I not justly 

fear, 35° 

That I, unworthy Object of thy Care, 
Into this World, from thy bright Presence 

tost. 
Am in th' Immensity of Nature lost ! 
And that my Notions of the World above, 
Are but Creations of my own Self -Love! 
To feed my coward Heart, afraid to die. 
With fancied Feasts of Immortality! 
These Thoughts, which thy amazing 

Works suggest. 
Oh glorious Father, rack my troubled 

Breast. 
Yet Gracious God, reflecting that my 

Frame 360 

From Thee deriv'd in animafmg Flame, 



And that what e'er I am, however mean, 
By thy Command I enter'd on this Scene 
Of Life — thy wretched Creature of a Day, 
Condemn'd to travel thro' a tiresome Way; 
Upon whose Banks (perhaps to cheer my 

Toil!) 
I see thin Verdures rise, and Daisies 

smile : 
Poor Comforts these, my Pains t' allevi- 
ate! 
While on my Head tempestuous Troubles 

beat. 
And must I, when I quit this Earthly 

Scene, 37° 

Sink total into Death, and never rise 

again ? 
No sure, — These Thoughts which in my 

Bosom roll, 
Must issue from a never-dying Soul; 
These active Thoughts, that penetrate the 

Sky, 
Excursive into dark Futurity; 
Which hope eternal Happiness to gain. 
Could never be bestow'd on Man in vain. 
To Thee, O Father, fiU'd with fervent 

Zeal, 378 

And sunk in humble Silence I appeal; 
Take me, my great Creator, to Thy Care, 
And gracious listen to my ardent Prayer ! 
Supreme of Beings, omnipresent Pow'r, 
My great Preserver from my natal Hour, 
Fountain of Wisdom, boundless Deity, 
Omniscient God, my wants are known 

to Thee, 
With Mercy look on mine Infirmity ! 
Whatever State thou shalt for me ordain. 
Whether my Lot in Life be Joy or Pain; 
Patient let me sustain thy wise Decree, 
And learn to know myself, and honour 

Thee. 390 

1730. 



THE ALMANACKS OF NATHANIEL AMES 

(1726-1775) 



{The text is taken from "The Essays, Humor, 

and Poems of Nathaniel Ames, Father and Son 

. . . ." from their Almanacks, 1726-1775, ed. by 

Sam Briggs, 1891.) 

FROM THE ALMANACK FOR 1733 

Time works a Change on all material 

Things 
Each Year new Cause of Admiration 

brings, 
Perhaps you'll wonder e'er this Year 

goes out, 
Because an Egypt Plague ''twil Taring 

about ; 
And would you know which of those 

Plagues 'twill be. 
Wait but a while, and you shall really see. 

JANUARY 

What feeble Accents faulter on my 

Tongue ? 
When I but think how ancient Poets Sung; 
Who lavish'd Art, to magnify the Fame 
Of silly gods which their own hands did 

Frame i° 

My Muse inspir'd with Nobler Themes 

defies 
Such Old, forsaken. Threadbare, Grecian 

Lies. 

The Winter's milder than last year. 
Your Hay will last, what need you 
fear ? 

FEBRUARY 

Attempt' ye Singers but in humble Lays, 
With Fear and Trembling Sound your 

Maker's Praise 
Enable me to Celebrate a right, 
Creation, and the Wonders of His Might. 
O ! Think how Loud the vast Empyren 

Rung ! 19 

When all the bright Angelic Nature Sung. 

MARCH 

To see how Thousands of New Worlds 

were made, 
And how the Basis of this World was 

laid, 
How Chaos yielded to the powerful Word, 
And moving Spirit of the Mighty God, 



Who Silenc'd Discord, and establis'd 

Peace; 
The Elements Eternal jangle cease. 

Art thou back-bited? 
Rejoice, if guiltless, 
If guilty, amend. 



Like things to like cohear, all Atome's 

Bright 30 

Or Luminous, combin'd in one great Light 
Which Rules the Day, and keeps in Exile 

Night. 
With an Almighty Arm He now stretch'd 

forth 
Upon the Empty Place the Spacious 

North 
The Earth self-ballanc'd on her Center 

hung, 
Into the Mighty Seas the Waters run. 



And left the smooth and level Surface dry. 
Some part of which aspir'd to Mountains 

high. 
Whose Concave Heads do serve to feed 

the Springs, 
And for a Womb to precious hidden 

things : 40 

Some Portion into humble Vales subside, 
And Campaign Plains (where Bloody 

Fights are tri'd) 

JUNE 

He Cloath'd the Fertile Surface o're with 

Vines 
With Shady Palms, Great Oakes, and 

Stately Pines 
And various useful Woods, Balsamic 

Shrubs, 
Grac'd with sweet scented Flowers and 

wholsome Herbs, 
Effluvia that with each Flower dwells 
Affects the sense with Oderiferous Smells. 

JULY 

The Eye delighted with a Wondrous 

Scene, 49 

Of Colors, and among the rest the Green 



30 



THE ALMANACKS OF NATHANIEL AMES 



31 



That's painted on the Grass, for niter 

Blew, 
And Yellow Sulphur, casts that Pleasant 

Hue, 
The fertile Vales with Crystal Streams 

supply'd. 
Which Cool the Air, and quench the Thirst 

beside. 

Love is a frantick Frenzy, 
That so infects the minds of men 
that under this taste of Nectar 
they are poisoned with the Water of 
Styx. 



Of Man and Beast: whose pearly Drops 

supply. 
The wing'd Musicians that inhabit nigh, 60 
The spacious Seas in Equilibrio Stand, 
Or in a due proportion to the Land, 
For lo they serve for many uses more 
Than to Convey the Ships from Shoar to 

Shoar 

SEPTEMBER 

And from the Dark and Gloomy Vaults 

below 
The Surface of the Earth, great Riches 

flow. 
The Subterraneous Streams concrete to 

Mines 
Which serve in deep Medicinal designs. 
His Voice in Air with Harmony inspires 
From the sweet warbling of the winged 

Choirs. 70 

OCTOBER 

The Scaley Tribe amidst the Liquid Seas 
Nor Stormes, nor driftings fear, they Sail 

with ease 
O're all His Works that Sublunary be. 
He cast a Saphire Glittering Canopy, 
Thunder and Lightning, Rain and painted 

Bow 
The spangling Stars, nay glaring Comets 

too 
Adore the Ample Theater below. 

O 23 =^ The Jarring Lovers are Reconcil'd. 

NOVEMBER 

He made (having His six Days Wonders 

done) 
The Sum of all His Works compriz'd in 

One, 80 

The noble Creature, Man, High Priest and 

King 
Over this World, and every Living thing. 



And brought these glorious Scenes before 

His eyes. 
Which fil'd his Son, with joy and with 

surprise. 

DECEMBER 

But heedless Man! He from the Hight 

of all 
Through Satan's Wiles Received a fatal 

fall: 
Vast Throngs of Wondering Angels Hast 

to see. 
The dire Event of this Catastrophe. 
Wonder Augmented still! for thro' free 

Grace 
He's Raised Sublime above his former 

Place. 90 

FROM THE ALMANACK FOR 1738 

Forewords for 1738 

Had Adam stood in Innocence till Now, 
And his blest Sons had deign'd to hold 

the Plough 
No Labour .had fatigu'd, nor Time had 

spoil'd 
His Youth : but Spring had ever bloom- 
ing smil'd, 
No Lust for Pelf, nor Heart distressing 

Pain 
Had seiz'd the Miser, nor the rural Swain : 
Nor Vice as now with Vertue ne'er had 

vi'd 
And Heaven's Omnipotence is self defy'd. 
Nor Lawyers, Priests nor Doctors n'er 

had been 
If Man had stood against th' Assaults of 

Sin. 10 

But oh, He fell ! and so accurs'd we be 
The World is now oblig'd to use all Three. 



When once our Friends do quit the living 
Shore 

We hear from them no more. 
Do any curious Minds desire to know 

Where 'tis they go. 

Or how they fare 
Let them be pleas'd to die 

Only to trie, 
Or else remain in Ignorance as they were. 

20 

Thus whether they fare ill or well 

Since not allow'd to tell. 
Who'd voluntary enter Charon's Boat. 
So Masonryi and Death are both the same 

Tho' of a different Name. 

* The spread of the Masonic orders was a 
subject of frequent comment in the almanacs 
of the period. 



32 



AMERICAN POETRY 



If Good there is in their Society 

'Tis free for those that try; 
But like the Grave let not the Living 
know't. 



FROM THE ALMANACK FOR 1743 

Great Nature's watchful Eye, the Sun 
At Gods Command ascends the Skies, 
Wide o'er the World with vast Survey, 
He bid the wond'rous planet rise, 
Around his Orb in measur'd dance 
The circling Hours and Months appear, 
The swift-wing'd Minutes lightly move, 
And mark the Periods of the rolling Year. 

JANUARY 

Uncomfortable Rain 



A snowy Inundation hides the Plain : 1° 
Bent with the weight the nodding Woods 

are seen. 
And one bright Waste hides all the Works 

of Men: 
The circling Seas alone absorbing all ; 
Drink the dissolving Fleeces as they fall. 

FEBRUARY 

The lovely Queen of silent Shades, 

The Moon in trembling streams of Light 
Wheels her pale Chariot slowly on 

O'er the soft Bosom of the Night: 
Millions of bright refulgent Worlds, 

Heavens glitt'ring Lamps are seen to 
rise : ^ 

They as her Virgin Train appear. 

And she the fair Vicegerent of the 
Skies. 

MARCH 

Are we depriv'd of Will; 



Must we not wish for fear of wishing 111? 
Receive my Counsel and securely move. 
Entrust thy Fortune to the Powers above ; 
Leave them to manage for thee, and to 

grant 
What their unerring Wisdom sees thee 

want. 

APRIL 

Curst is the Man, and void of Law and 

Right, 
Unworthy Property, unworthy Light, 3° 
Unfit for publick Rule, or private Care 
That Wretch, that does unjustly move a 

War 
Whose Lust is Murder, and whose horrid 

Joy 



To tear his Country, and his Kind de- 
stroy. 

MAY 

Now Winters rage abates, now chearful 

Hours 
Awake the Spring, and Spring awakes the 

Flowers. 
The opening Buds salute the welcome Day, 
And Earth relenting, feels the genial Ray. 
The Blossoms blow, the Birds on Bushes 

sing ; K' 

And_ Nature has accomplish'd all the m\ 



Spring. 



JUNE 



Now from on high Sol darts his Fires; 

The glowing Breast to transport 
Warms ; 
Life bounds afresh with soft desires. 

And rosy Beauty sweetl}' charms : 
His flaming Arrows pierce the Flood, 

And to the bottom bake the Mud. 

JULY 

The early Fields are now in plight, 
To yield the Harvester Delight: 
The ripened Grain on rising Fields, 
A most delightful Prospect yields; 5° 
In even Ranks the waving Heads appear, 
Bend with the fruitful Load and crown 
the lusty Year. 



God ! The small Ants do thy Protection 

share. 
By thee advis'd to save their Wintry 

Store; 
Their little Commonwealth employs thy 

Care, 
Too wise to want, too frugal to be poor ; 
Well may they shame the puzzled Schemes 

of Man, 
Since from thy Thought divine, they drew 

the wond'rous Plan. 

SEPTEMBER 

Here I enjoy my private Thoughts ; nor 

care 
What rot the Sheep for southern Winds 

prepare : 6o 

Survey the neighbouring Fields, and not ^ 

repine I 

When I behold a larger Crop than mine 
To see a Beggars Brat in Riches flow. 
Adds not a Wrinkle to mj' even Brow. 



THE ALMANACKS OF NATHANIEL AMES 



33 



The Sun now shoots his milder Ray, 
And downward drives the falling Day; 
Cool Evening now its Beauty rears 
And blushes in its dewy Tears. 
The wand'ring Flocks no longer Rove, 
But seek the Covert of the Grove. 7° 

NOVEMBER 

Beauty and Strength, and Wit, and 
Wealth, and Power, 
Have their short flourishing Hour; 
And love to see themselves, and smile, 
And joy in their Preeminence awhile; 

E'en so in the same Land, 
Poor Weed, Rich Corn, gay Flowers to- 
gether stand : 
Alas ! Death mows down all with an im- 
partial hand. 

DECEMBER- 

But when the angry Surge begins to rage, 
And thro' the boundless waste the Tem- 
pests roar, 

O Gracious God, do thou their Wrath as- 
swage ; ^° 

And bid the frightning Whirlwinds 
storm no more. 

Let gentle Pity flow within thy Breast, 

Oh ! Chear his melting soul, and give the 
wearied Sailor rest. 



FROM THE ALMANACK FOR 1751 

Perceiv'st thou not the Process of the 
Year, 

How the four Seasons in four Forms ap- 
pear : 

Spring first, like Infancy, shoots out her 
Head, 

With milky Juice requiring to be fed ; 

Proceeding onward whence the Year be- 
gan. 

The Summer grows adult, and ripens into 
Man: 

Autumn succeeds a sober tepid Age, 

Not froze with Fear, nor boiling into 
Rage : 

Last Winter sweeps along with tardy 
Pace, 

Sour is his Front, and furrow'd is his 
Face. 10 

Courteous Reader, 

The Verses at the Head of each 
Monthly Page were written at my Desire, 



and presented to me by a young Gentle- 
man, then at the Age of twelve Years. — 

JANUARY 

H fraught with Snow the gath'ring Clouds 

impend, 
Hov'ring in Air the fleecy Flakes descend 
Smooth as th' unruffled Surface of the Sea : 
But if the furious Winds with Hail agree. 
The furious Winds the batter'd Case- 
ments crack. 
Level the hoary Grove, the tot'ring Build- 
ings rack. 

FEBRUARY 

Now hoary Winter shivers o'er the Plains, 
And binds the frozen Floods in adaman- 
tine Chains ; 
Th' advancing Sun by his prolific Ray 
Warms the cold Air, and drives the damps 
away ; ^o 

A gen'ral Thaw ensues, the Waters rore, 
Break their cold Bands, and lash the 
sounding Shore. 



The trembling Sailor views with anxious 
Eyes 

The gloomy Storm slow-sailing up the 
Skies, 

Hoarse Whirlwinds thunder o'er the dis- 
tant Deep, 

And the white foaming Waves majestick 
sweep. 

Up to the Skies the Shat'red Ship is tost. 

Then down the bottomless Abyss is lost. 



In Clouds array'd now Heav'n indulgent 

low'rs, 
The fat'ned Fields confess the frequent 

Show'rs, 30 

'Till at the Close of the declining Day, 
The setting Sun directs his level Ray, 
While flying Iris draws the painted Bow, 
And in the dropping Cloud the blended 

Colours glow. 



The fragrant Fields are cloth'd in rich 

Array, 
The Groves rejoice, and all the World is 

While tuneful Birds their various An- 
thems sing. 

And with their Notes the vocal Forests 
ring; 



34 



AMERICAN POETRY 



1 



The painted Blossoms charm th' admiring 

Eyes, 
And send their grateful Odours to the 

skies. 40 

JUNE 

The murm'ring Thunder at a Distance 

rolls, 
And vivid Lightnings burn about the 

Poles, 
O'er the high Arch the flaming Torrents 

play. 
And turn the Darkness to the Blaze of 

Day. 
Heav'n's everlasting Pillars groan aloud, 
And the hoarse Thunder rattles thro' the 

Cloud. 

JULY 

The Flocks, retiring from the burning 

Heat, 
Seek the cool Covert of a green Retreat, 
The silver Stream invites the thirsty 

Swain, 
While sultry Syrius fires the glowing 

Plain ; so 

The parcht Earth cracks, the Oxen low 

for Food, 
And Phcehus rages o'er the sapless Wood. 



Bear me to some cool Arbour's pleasing 

Shade, 
By curling Vines and lofty Poplars made, 
Or, in the Covert of some lonely Grove, 
Fan'd by refreshing Zephyr's may I rove, 
Where some still Stream it's silver Cur- 
rent pours 
Thro' mossy Banks adorn'd with various 
Flow'rs. 

SEPTEMBER 

While Ceres pours the Joys of Plenty 

round. 

The bearded Harvest whitens o'er the 

Ground, 60 



The tumid Grape bears down the slender 

Vine, 
And ev'ry thick'ning Cluster swells with 

Wine, 
With various Fruits the loaded Orchards 

blush. 
And the gay Berry blazes on the Bush. 



OCTOBER 

Sulphureous Flames th' unwary Bees as- 
sail, 

And spite of all their little Arts prevail ; 

Fam'd Architects all perish in the Doom, 

Who rear'd by Rules exact the. curious 
Comb; 

Statesmen and Gen'rals undistinguish'd 
lie, 

And Monarchs and their Slaves promiscu- 
ous die. 70 

NOVEMBER 

The silver Current murmur'd thro' the 

Grove, 
Sacred to Flora and the Queen of Love; 
But am'rous Hymen Seiz'd the blooming 

Maid, 
The Flow'rs all dropt, the Verdure all de- 

cay'd. 
The silver Current stiffen'd as it roll'd. 
And all the Forest shiver'd. with the 

Cold. 



DECEMBER 

Distant Apollo with his slanting Ray 
Makes a faint Effort to produce the Day, 
To the short Days the long long Nights 

succeed ; 
While twinkling Stars the chrystal Vault 

o'erspread ; 80 

And the fair Moon rules o'er the dusky 

Night, 
The hoary Vale reflects the silver Light. 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 

(1737-1791) 



(The text is taken front "The Miscellaneous 

Essays and Occasional Writings of Francis 

Hopkins&n, Esq., Vol. Ill, 1792.) 

ODE ON MUSIC 

Hark ! hark ! the sweet vibrating lyre 
Sets my attentive soul on fire ; 
Thro' all my frame with pleasures thrill 
Whilst the loud treble warbles shrill, 
And the more slow and solemn bass 
Addo charm to charm and grace to grace. 

Sometimes in sweetly languid strains 
The guilty trembling string complains : 
How it delights my ravished ear 
When the expiring notes I hear lo 

Vanish distant and decay! — 
They steal my yielding soul away. 

Neatly trip the merry dance, 
And lightly touch and swiftly glance; 
Let boundless transport laugh aloud 
Sounds madly ramble mix and crowd. 
Till all in one loud rapture rise, 
Spread thro' the air and reach the skies. 

But when you touch the solemn air. 
Oh ! swell each note distinct and clear ; 20 
In ev'ry strain let sorrow sigh, 
Languish soft and sweetly die. 

So shall th' admir'd celestial art, 
Raise and transport my ravish'd heart; 
Exalt my soul, and give my mind 
Ideas of sublimer kind. 
So great the bliss it seems to prove 
There must be music too above. 
That from the trumpets silver sound 
Of wing'd arch-angels plac'd around 3° 
Thy burning throne — Oh ! king of Heaven ! 
Most perfect harmony is giv'n : 
Whilst happy saints in concert join 
To make the music more divine, 
And with immortal voices sing 
HosANNAHS to their glorious King. 

SONG 



Beauty and merit now are joiri'd, 
An angel's form, an angel's mind 

Are sweetly met in thee; 
Thy soul, which all the virtues grace, 
Shines forth with lustre in thy face. 

From affectation free. 



II 

Who in thy form, too lovely maid ! 
Can read thy temper there display'd; 

Can look and calmly see? 
The face that with such beauty charms, ^o 
The breast which so much virtue warms, 

Is sure too much for me ! 

ADVICE TO AMANDA 



Amanda, since thy lovely frame, 

Of ev'ry charm possest, 
Hath power to raise the purest flame 

And warm the coldest breast: 



Oh ! think that heav'n could ne'er design, 

Thou too reserved maid, 
That ever beauties, such as thine, 

Like unknown flow'rs should fade. 



When next you see your faithful swain. 
Your Strephon at your feet ; " 

When next you hear him sigh his pain 
And tend'rest vows repeat, 

IV 

Then think 'tis fit a love so true 

Should meet a kind regard; 
And think 'tis given alone to you 

His virtue to reward. 



If constancy, with merit join'd, 

Hath any charms for thee. 
Let Strephon thy acceptance find, 

For such a swain is he. 

VI 

No longer then, too cruel fair, 

Defer the happy day; 
But with thy love reward his care, 

His tenderness repay. 

VII 

So shall th' indulgent eye of Heav'n 
Thy worthy choice approve. 

When such victorious charms are giv'n 
A prize to faithful love. 



35 



36 



AMERICAN POETRY 



A MORNING HYMN 



Arise ! and see the glorious sun 
Mount in the eastern sky : 

See with what majesty he comes, 
What splendor strik[e]s the eye! 



Life, light, and heat he spreads abroad 
In ever bounteous streams ; 

This day shall joyful myriads own 
The influence of his beams. 

Ill 

How fresh the healthful morning air! 

What fragrance breaths around ! 
New lustre paints each op'ning flow'r 

New verdure cloaths the ground. 



No ruffling storms of wind or rain 
Disturb the calm serene : 

But gentle nature far abroad 
Displays her softest scene. 



Thro' chequer'd groves and o'er the plains 

Refreshing breezes pass. 
And play with ev'ry wanton leaf, 

And wave the slender grass. 20 



See yonder silver gliding stream; 

The sun's reflected ray. 
Doth in its wat'ry bosom sport. 

And on its surface play. 

VII 

The trees that shade its flow'ry banks, 

Are nourish'd by the flood ; 
Whilst from their branches songsters 
sweet. 

Re-echo thro' the wood. 



They with their little warbling throats. 
Salute the rising day ; 30 

And in untaught, but pleasing strains 
Their grateful homage pay. 



Oh ! let us then with souls sincere 

Adore that pow'r Divine! 
Who makes that orb move thus complete. 

Who makes his rays to shine. 



Who causes ev'ry rising day 

In beauty to return; 
And Bids the sun's meridian height 

With brighter glories burn. 4° 



Who morning, noon, and evening, too, 

Has with his blessing blest; 
And kindly gives the night's still shades 

For wearied man to rest. 



VERSES 

Inscribed to the officers of the 35th regi- \ 
meiit on their embarkation for the 
expedition against Louisbourg'^ 

Now warmer suns, once more bid nature 

smile. 
The new-born spring, peeps from the 

teaming soil : 
From ice the streams, the fields from 

snow are free, 
And blossoms swell on every pregnant tree : 
The softened season melts in sudden 

show'rs. 
And April all her flow'ry treasures pours ; 
Well might I sing the early warbling lay 
Of rural songsters at the dawn of day; 
The riv'Iet winding thro' the long drawn 

vale. 
The new cloth'd mountain, the green 

tufted dale; 'o 

Or shepherd's pipe, that in melodious 

strains, 
Welcomes the spring to valleys, hills and 

plains. 
But these I leave, and for the aspiring 

muse, 
A nobler theme, a loftier subject choose. 
This is the season whose warm rays in- 
spire. 
Heroic bosoms with a martial fire : 
To war's alarms all softer pleasures yield, 
And ev'ry Briton burns to take the field. 
The drums loud beat, the fire's shrill 

soaring lay. 

^ Loiiisbourg had an interesting history in the 
border contests between the French and English 
in the first half of the 18th century. This 
strong fortress on Cape Breton Island was cap- 
tured from the French by New England troops 
in 1745 and surrendered to France by the 
treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748. The expedi- 
tion mentioned in the two poems of Hopkinson 
left in the spring of 1758 under Lord Amherst. 
The siege lasted from June 8 to July 26. The 
town was demolished, and the fortress badly 
breached, 



FRANCIS HOPKIN'SON 



37 



The trumpet's clangor, the dread cannon's 
play ; 20 

All, all conspire to bid the heroes go 
And thunder vengeance on the daring foe. 
Ye who have roll'd the winter months 

away, 
In scenes of pleasure and in pastimes gay; 
At home endow'd with ev'ry art to please, 
Of free politeness and becoming ease; 
Abroad, the noble champions of our cause, 
Protectors of our liberties and laws. 



Long have you known the gently thrill- 
ing fires 
Which beauty kindles and which love in- 
spires ; 30 
Long have enjoy'd the graces of the fair, 
To please and to be pleas'd was all your 

care: 
Far other transports now your bosoms 

warm, 
Far other glories your ambition charm. — 
Go, seek for conquest where loud tumults 

reign. 
Where death runs liquid o'er the im- 

purpled plain; 
Where victor's shouts, and vanquish'd 

warriors' cries 
In clouds of smoke promiscuously arise. 
And undistinguish'd reach the vaulted 

skies; 
Where desolation stalks the tragic field, 40 
Where Britons conquer, and where 
Frenchmen yield. 

See on the surface of that rolling tide 
Fast moor'd the proud expecting navies 

ride : 
They loose their streamers from each top 

mast height. 
And spread their wings, impatient for the 

fight; 
Eager thro' seas, to waft you hence away, 
Where laurels strew the field, and hon- 
ours crown the day. 

Oh ! may indulgent heav'n assistance 
to lend ! 

Oh ! may success Britannia's arms attend : 

Let ev'ry sword a keen destruction wear ; 

Each well aim'd spear a pointed vengeance 
bear ; 51 

And may each heroe, that we send from 
home. 

Back to our wishing arms a glorious con- 
queror come, 

1758. 



On the late successful expedition against 
LOUISBOURG 

At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's 

done. 
And British valour hath the conquest 

won : 
Success our arms, our heroes, honour 

crowns, 
And Louisbourg an English monarch 

owns ! 
Swift, to the scene where late the valiant 

fought, 
Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of 

thought — 
That awful scene, where the dread god 

of war 
O'er fields of death roll'd his triumphant 

car : 
There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I 

view 
The pressing throng, the fierce assault 

renew : 10 

With dauntless front advance, and boldly 

brave 
The cannon's thunder, and th' expecting 

grave. 

On yonder clifif, high hanging o'er the 
deep, 

Where trembling joy cHmbs the dark- 
some steep; 

Britannia lonely sitting, from afar 

Waits the event, and overlooks the war; 

Thence, roll her eager wand'ring eyes 
about. 

In all the dread anxiety of doubt; 

Sees her fierce sons, her foes with ven- 
geance smite. 

Grasp deathless honours, and maintain 
the fight. 20 

Whilst thus her breast alternate passions 
sway, 

And hope and fear wear the slow hours 
away. 

See! from the realms of everlasting light, 

A radiant form wings her aerial flight. 

The palm she carries, and the crown she 
wears, 

Plainly denotes 'tis Victory appears : 

Her crimson vestment loosely flows be- 
hind. 

The clouds her chariot, and her wings 
th« wind : 

Trumpets shrill sounding all around her 
play. 

And laurell'd honours gild her azure 
way — • 30 



38 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Now she alights — the trumpets cease to 

sound, 
Her presence spreads expecting silence 

round : — 
And thus she speaks; whilst from her 

heav'nly face 
Effulgent glories brighten all the place — 

"Britannia, hail ! thine is at length the 

day, 
And lasting triumphs shall thy cares re- 
pay; 
Thy godlike sons, by this, their names 

shall raise, 
And tongues remote shall joy to swell 

their praise. 
I to the list'ning world will soon proclaim 
Of Wolfe's brave deeds, the never-dying 

fame, 4° 

And swell with glory Amherst's patriot 

name. 
Such are the heroes that shall ever bring 
Wealth to their country, honour to their 

king: 
Opposing foes, in vam attempts to quell 
The native fires that in such bosoms dwell. 
To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign, 
Smile, smile, Britannia! victory is thine. 
Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow ! 
Long may thy toes a forc'd subjection 

know ! 
See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r 

decline ! _ so 

Rejoice Britannia! victory is thine." 

Give your loose canvas to the breezes 

free, 
Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the 

sea : 
Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king, 
And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis 

victory you bring : 
Let the wild croud that catch the breath 

of fame. 
In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim : 
Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames 

ascend, 
While mingling shouts the azure concave 

rend. 
But let the few, whom reason makes 

more wise, 6° 

With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes : 
Oh! tet their breasts dilate with sober joy. 
Let pious praise their hearts and tongues 

employ ; 
To bless our God with me let all unite. 
He guides the conq'ring sword, he gov- 
erns in the fight. 

1758. 



TO CELIA 

On her wedding day 

Whilst Heav'n with kind propitious ray, 

Smiles, Celia, on thy nuptial day, 

And ev'ry sympathising breast 

With transport glows to see thee blest; 

Whilst present joys the hours beguile, 

And future prospects seem to smile. 

Shall not my muse her tribute bring 

And gladly touch the trembling string? 

I know 'tis usual at such times 

To pay respect in pompous rhymes; ^° 

To bid the whole celestial race 

With brightest glories fill the place, 

And from their mansions hasten down 

The nuptial rites with bliss to crown: 

As if each goddess might be said 

To be the poet's waiting maid : 

But I who have no power at all, 

Such high divinities to call. 

Must lay those stratagems aside 

And with plain fable treat the bride. 20 

As Cupid thro' the azure way 
Did late with wand'ring pinion stray, 
The little urchin chanc'd to spy; 
His master Hymen passing by; 
Surpris'd with conscious guilt and shame, 
Knowing his conduct much to blame, 
With nimble haste he strove to shroud 
His presence in a fleecy cloud. 
But Hymen saw, nor could he fail 
To see a wing — oh ! piteous tale ! 30 

Peep from behind the misty veil. 
Th' observing god with eager joy, 
Rush'd on and seiz'd th' affrighted boy. — 
"Well, master Cupid, are you caught 
At last, he cry'd, I almost thought 
You, far from hence, had taken flight, 
And quite forsook the realms of light; 
For whereso'er I choose to stray, 
I seldom meet you in my way. — 
Wherefore so shy ? since well you know 4° 
It is not very long ago 
Since Jove in cojincil did decree. 
Yourself and services to me; 
That it might ever be your care, 
To warm those breasts whom I would 

pair 
With mutual love, and bless my bonds, 
By mingling hearts with joining hands. 
Instead of which, you rambling go. 
And sad confusions make below : 
Whilst my softest bondage often falls, so 
Where custom points or int'rest calls. 
But Jove himself shall quickly hear, 
How much his dictates you revere ; 
Yet e'er we part, 'tis my desire. 



I 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 



39 



You kindle love's celestial fire 
In the fair Celia's peaceful breast, 
And make her am'rous Strephon blest." 
With piteous tone, and tear-full eye. 
Thus did the little god reply: 
"This, Hymen, this I must deny, 60 

Do — any other service choose. 
There's nought but this I can refuse; 
I have my word and honour giv'n. 
And firmly sworn by earth and Heav'n, 
That love shall Celia ne'er molest, 
No dart of mine e'er wound her breast." 
Hymen, first made an angry pause, 
Then spake — "Thou traitor to my cause ! 
Is't thus with mortals you conspire, 
To break my torch and quench my fire; 7° 
I oft have wonder'd why that maid 
My soft encircling bands delay'd; 
The wonder ceases now ; I find 
That you and Celia have combin'd, 
My pow'r celestial to dispise 
And rob me of my fairest prize. 
But Celia soon in wedlock's chain 
Shall shine the fairest of my train : 
Virtue her days with peace shall crown, 
And I will show'r my blessings down; 80 
Her happy state shall others move, 
To seek the joys of weded love." 
Much would the weeping boy have said; 
But Hymen urg'd, and love obey'd : 
A shaft he chose from out the rest. 
And sunk it deep in Celia's breast. 
Soft thro' her frame the poison crept; 
And Hymen laugh'd and Cupid wept. 
Then upwards, far from human fight, 
They wing'd their way in speedy flight, 90 
Wrapt in a glorious blaze of light. 

THE WASP 

Wrapt in Aurelian filth and slime, 
An infant wasp neglected lay; 

Till having doz'd the destin'd time, 
He woke, and struggl'd into day. 

Proud of his venom bag and sting. 
And big with self-approved worth : 

Mankind, he said, and stretch'd his wing. 
Should tremble when I sally forth. 

In copious streams my spleen shall flow, 
And satire all her purses drain; 1° 

A critic born, the world shall know 
I carry not a sting in vain. 

This said, from native cell of clay. 

Elate he rose in airy flight ; 
Thence to the city chang'd his way. 

And on a steeple chanc'd to light. 



Ye gods, he cry'd, what horrid pile 
Presumes to rear its head so high — 

This clumsy cornice — see hov/ vile : 
Can this delight a critic's eye? 20 

With pois'nous sting he strove to wound 
The substance firm: but strove in vain; 

Surpris'd he sees it stands its ground, 
Nor starts thro' fear, nor writhes with 
pain. 

Away th' enraged insect flew; 

But soon with aggravated pow'r, 
Against the walls his body threw. 

And hop'd to shake the lofty tow'r. 

Firm fix'd it stands; as stand it must. 
Nor heeds the wasp's unpitied fall : 30 

The humbled critic rolls in dust. 

So stunn'd, so bruis'd, he scarce can 
crawl. 

POLITICAL BALLADS 
Date Obolum BellesariqI 

Written in the year 1777 

As I travell'd o'er the plain, 

About the close of day, 
I chanc'd to wander in a lane, 

A lane of mire and clay. 

'Twas there a dirty drab I saw. 

All seated on the ground. 
With oaken staff and hat of straw. 

And tatters hanging round. 

At my approach she heav'd a sigh, 

And due obeisance paid, 10 

First wip'd a tear from either eye. 
Then her petition made. 

"A wretch forlorn, kind sir, you see. 
That begs from door to door; 

Oh ! stop and give for charity, 
A penny to the poor ! 

"Tho' now in tatters I appear, 
Yet know the time hath been. 

When I partook the world's good cheer. 
And better days have seen." 20 

Proceed, said I, whilst I attend 

The story of thy woe; 
Proceed, and charity shall lend 

Some help before I go. 

^ Written after the defeat of Burgoyne in 
October, 1777. 



40 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"If blooming honours men delight. 

If charms in wealth they see, 
My fame once soar'd a glorious height, 

And who more rich than me. 

"Of sons and daughters I can boast 
A long illustrious line ; ' 3° 

Of servants could command a host, 
For large domains were mine. 

"But George my youngest faithless boy, 
Hath all my powers o'erthrown; 

And in the very beds of joy 
The seeds of sorrow sown. 

"He thirsting for supreme command, 
^ Contemn'd my wise decrees. 
And with a sacrilegious hand, 

My dearest rights did seize. 4° 

"A magic wand I once possest, 

A cap aloft it bore ; 
Of all my treasures this the best, 

And none I value more. 

"Ruthless he broke the sacred rod, 

The cap he tumbled down ; 
Destroying thus, what with their blood 

His ancestors had won. 

"An orphan child fell to my care, 

Fair as the moi^n was she, so 

To large possessions she was heir, 
And friendly still to me. 

"But George, my son, beheld the maid. 

With fierce lascivious eye ; 
To ravish her a plan he laid, 

And she was forc'd to fly. 

"She's young and will no more depend 

On cruel George or me; 
No longer now my boasted friend, 

Nor of my family. 6o 

"Bad measures often end in worse, 

His fell intent to gain; 
He sent in rage a mighty force. 

To bring her back again. 

"But to defend the injur'd maid, 
Her faithful household came, 

In battle strong they stood array'd, 
And gain'd immortal fame. 

" 'Mongst these a god-like hero rose 
Wise, generous and brave, 7° 

He check'd the frenzy of her foes. 
His arm was strong to save. 



"So near perfection, that he stood 

Upon the bound'ry line. 
Of infinite from finite good. 

Of human from divine. 

"Defeated thus in all his schemes^ 

My foolish, wick'd son, 
Awak'd from his delusive dreams, 

And found himself undone. 8o 

"Mean time I suffer'd, in disgrace, 

No comfort could I find, 
I saw distress come on a pace, 

With ruin close behind. 

"At length distracted quite with grief, 

I left my native home. 
Depending now on chance relief. 

Abroad for bread I roam. 

"A shield and lance once grac'd these 
hands. 

Perhaps you've heard my fame, 9° 

For I was known in distant lands, 

Britannia is my name. 

"Britannia now in rags you see; 

I beg from door to door — 
Oh ! give, kind sire for charity, 

A penny to the poor." 



I 



1777. 

The Battle of the Kegs 
(January 5, 177S) 

Gallants attend and hear a friend, 

Trill forth harmonious ditty. 
Strange things I'll telF which late befel 

In Philadelphia city. 

'Twas early day, as poets say. 
Just when the sun was rising, 

A soldier stood on a log of wood. 
And saw a thing surprising. 

As in amaze he stood to gaze. 

The truth can't be denied, sir, ^o 

He spied a score of kegs or more 

Come floating down the tide, sir. 

A sailor too in jerkin blue. 

This strange appearance viewing. 

First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise, 
Then said some mischief's brewing. 

These kegs, I'm told, the rebels bold, 
Pack'd up like pickling herring; 

And they're come down t' attack the town. 
In this new way of ferrying. 20 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 



41 



The soldier flew, the sailor too, 
And scar'd almost to death, sir. 

Wore out their shoes, to spread the news. 
And ran till out of breath, sir. 

Now up and down throughout the town, 
Most frantic scenes were acted; 

And some ran here, and others there. 
Like men almost distracted. 

Some fire cry'd, which some denied, 
But said the earth had quaked; _ 3° 

And girls and boys, with hideous noise, 
Ran thro' the streets half naked. 

Sir William he, snug as a flee, 
Lay all this time a snoring. 

Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm, 
In bed with Mrs. h— g. 

Now in a fright, he starts upright, 

Awak'd by such a clatter ; 
He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries. 

For God's sake, what's the matter? 40 

At his bed-side he then espy'd. 
Sir Erskine at command, sir. 

Upon one foot, he had one boot, 
And th' other in his hand, sir. 

"Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, 
"The rebels — more's the pity, 

Without a boat are all afloat, 
And rang'd before the city. 

"The motly crew, in vessels new. 
With Satan for their guide, sir. 5o 

Pack'd up in bags, or wooden kegs. 
Come driving down the tide, sir. 

"Therefore prepare for bloody war. 
These kegs must all be routed. 

Or surely we despised shall be. 
And British courage doubted." 



The royal band, now ready stand 
All rang'd in dread array, sir, 

With stomach stout to see it out. 
And make a bloody day, sir. 

The cannons roar from shore to shore. 
The small arms make a rattle ; 

Since wars began I'm sure no man 
E'er saw so strange a battle. 

The rebel dales, the rebel vales, 
With rebel trees surrounded ; 

The distant wood, the hills and floods. 
With rebel echoes sounded. 



60 



The fish below swam to and fro, 

Attack'd from ev'ry quarter ; 7o 

Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, 
'Mongst folks above the water. 

The kegs, 'tis said, tho' strongly made, 
Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, 

Could not oppose their powerful foes. 
The conqu'ring British troops, sir. 

From morn to night these men of might 

Display'd amazing courage; 
And when the sun was fairly down, 

Retir'd to sup their porrage. 80 

An hundred men with each a pen. 
Or more upon my word, sir. 

It is most true would be too few. 
Their valor to record, sir. 

Such feats did they perform that day, 
Against these wick'd kegs, sir, 

That years to come, if they get home. 
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir. 

Pennsylvania Packet, Mar. 4, 1778. 

This ballad was occasioned by a real incident. 
Certain machines, in the form of kegs, charg'd 
with gun powder, were sent down the river to 
annoy the British shipping then at Philadelphia. 
The danger of these machines being discovered, 
the British manned the wharfs and shipping, 
and discharged their small arms and cannons 
at everything they saw floating in the river dur- 
ing the ebb tide. {Note in 1792 edition.) 



The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat 

A fable 

A War broke out in former days. 
If all is true that ^sop says. 
Between the birds that haunt the grove, 
And beasts that wild in forests rove : 
Of fowl that swim in waters clear. 
Of birds that mount aloft in air; 
From ev'ry tribe vast numbers came. 
To fight for freedom, as for fame : 
The beasts from dens and caverns deep. 
From valleys low and mountains steep; ^° 
In motly ranks determin'd stood. 
And dreadful bowlings shook the wood. 
The bat, half bird, half beast was there, 
Nor would for this or that declare; 
Waiting till conquest should decide, 
Which was the strongest, safest side : 
Depending on this doubtful form, 
To screen him from th' impending storm. 

With sharpen'd beaks and talons long. 
With horny spurs and pinions strong, ^° 



42 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The birds in fierce assault, 'tis said, 
Amongst the foe such havoc made, 
That panic struck, the beasts retreat 
Amaz'd, and victory seem'd complete. 
Th' observant bat, vfith squeaking tone. 
Cries, "Bravo, birds the day's our own ; 
For now I'm proud to claim a place 
Amongst your bold aspiring race; 
With leathern wings I skim the air. 
And am a bird tho' clad in hair." 3° 

But now the beasts ashamed of flight, 
With rallied force renew the fight. 
With threatening teeth, uplifted paws. 
Projecting horns and spreading claws, 
Enrag'd advance — push on the fray, 
And claim the honours at the day. 

The bat still hov'ring to and fro, 
Observ'd how things were like to go. 
Concludes those best who best can fight. 
And thinks the strongest party right; 4° 
"Push on, quoth he, our's is the day 
We'll chase these rebel birds away. 
And reign supreme — for who but we 
Of earth and air the Lords should be; 
That I'm a beast I can make out. 
By reasons strong beyond a doubt, 
With teeth and fur 'twould be absurd, 
To call a thing like me a bird : 
Each son and daughter of my house; 
Is stil'd at least a flying mouse." so 

Always uncertain is the fate, 
Of war and enterprises great: 
The beasts exulting push'd too far 
Their late advantage in the war; 
Sure of success, insult the foe. 
Despise their strength and careless grow; 
The birds not vanquish'd, but dismay'd. 
Collect their force, new pow'rs display'd; 
Their chief, the eagle, leads them on. 
And with fierce rage the war's begun. 6° 
Now in their turn the beasts must yield, 
The bloody laurels of the field; 
Routed they fly, disperse, divide, 
And in their native caverns hide. 

Once more the bat with courtly voice, 
"Hail, noble birds! much I rejoice 



In your success, and come to claim 
My share of conquest and of fame." 
The birds the faithless wretch despise ; 
Hence, traitor, hence the eagle cries ; 7° 
No more, as you just vengeance fear. 
Amongst our honour'd ranks appear. 
The bat, disown'd in some old shed, 
Now seeks to hide his exil'd head; 
Nor dares his leathern wings display, 
From rising morn to setting day : 
But when the gloomy shades of night. 
Screens his vile form from every sight, 
Despis'd, unnotic'd, flits about ; 
Then to his dreary cell returns, 8o 

And his just fate in silence mourns. 

1778(?). 



My Generous Heart Disdains 
1 
My generous heart disdains 
The slave of love to be; 
I scorn his servile chains, 
And boast my liberty. 
This whining 
And pining 
And wasting with care, 
Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair. 



Shall a girl's capricious frown 
Sink my noble spirits down? 
Shall a face of white and red 
Make me droop my silly head? 
Shall I set me down and sigh 
For an eyebrow or an eye? 
For a braided lock of hair. 
Curse my fortune and dispair? 
My generous heart disdains, etc. 



Still uncertain is tomorrow, 
Not quite certain is to-day — 
Shall I waste my time in sorrow? 
Shall I languish life away? 
AH because a cruel maid 
Hath not love with love repaid? 
My generous heart disdains, etc. 



1 



JOHN TRUMBULL 
(1750-1831) 



{The text and notes are from "The Poetical 
Works of John Trumbull" in two volumes, 1820.) 

THE PROGRESS OF DULNESSi 

Part III 

or the adventures of 

Miss Harriet Simper 

"Come hither, Harriet, pretty Miss, 
Come hither; give your aunt a kiss. 
What, blushing? fye, hold up your head, 
Full six years old and yet afraid ! 
With such a form, an air, a grace, 
You're not ashamed to show your face ! 
Look like a lady — bold — my child ! 
Why ma'am, your Harriet will be spoil'd. 
What pity 'tis, a girl so sprightly 
Should hang her head so unpolitely? ^° 
And sure there's nothing worth a rush in 
That odd, unnatural trick of blushing; 
It marks one ungenteelly bred, 
And shows there's mischief in her head. 
I've heard Dick Hairbrain prove from 

Paul, 
Eve never blush'd before the fall. 
'Tis said indeed, in latter days. 
It gain'd our grandmothers some praise; 
Perhaps it suited well enough 
With hoop and farthingale and ruff; 20 
But this politer generation 
Holds ruffs and blushes out of fashion. 

"And what can mean that gown so odd? 
You ought to dress her in the mode. 
To teach her. how to make a figure ; 
Or she'll be awkward when she's bigger. 
And look as queer as Joan of Nokes, 
And never rig like other folks; 
Her clothes will trail, all fashion lost, 
As if she hung them on a post, 30 

And sit as awkwardly as Eve's 
First pea-green petticoat of leaves. 

"And what can mean your simple whim 
here 
To keep her poring on her primer? 
'Tis quite enough for girls to know, 
If she can read a billet-doux, 
Or write a line you'd understand 
Without a cypher of the hand. 

^ Part I of the Progress of Dulness is en- 
titled "On the Adventures of Tom Brainless"; 
Part II, "On the Life and Character of Dick 
Hairbrain." Both of these characters appear in 
Part III. These appeared, Part I, Aug., 1772; 
Part II, Jan., 1773; Part III, July, 1773. 



Why need she learn to write, or spell? 
A pothook scrawl is just as well; 4° 

Might rank her with the better sort, 
For 'tis the reigning mode at court. 
And why should girls be learn'd or wise? 
Books only serve to spoil their eyes. 
The studious eye but faintly twinkles, 
And reading paves the way to wrinkles. 
In vain may learning fill the head full; 
'Tis beauty that's the one thing needful; 
Beauty, our sex's sole pretence. 
The best receipt for female sense, s° 

The charm that turns all words to witty, 
And makes the silliest speeches pretty, 
Ev'n folly borrows killing graces 
From ruby lips and roseate faces. 
Give airs and beauty to your daughter. 
And sense and wit will follow after." 

Thus round the infant Miss in state 
The council of the ladies meet. 
And gay in modern style and fashion 
Prescribe their rules of education. 60 

The mother once herself a toast. 
Prays for her child the self-same post; 
The father hates the toil and pother. 
And leaves his daughters to their mother; 
From whom her faults, that never vary. 
May come by right hereditary. 
Follies be multiplied with quickness. 
And whims keep up the family likeness. 

Ye parents, shall those forms so fair, 
The graces might be proud to wear, 7° 
The charms those speaking eyes display, 
Where passion sits in ev'ry ray, 
Th' expressive glance, the air refined. 
That sweet vivacity of mind. 
Be doom'd for life to folly's sway, 
By trifles lur'd, to fops a prey? 
Say, can ye think that forms so fine 
Were made for nothing but to shine. 
With lips of rose and cheeks of cherry, 
Outgo the works of statuary, 80 

And gain the prize of show, as victors. 
O'er busts and effigies and pictures? 
Can female sense no trophies raise. 
Are dress and beauty all their praise. 
And does no lover hope to find 
An angel in his charmer's mind? 
First from the dust our sex began. 
But woman was refined from man ; 
Received again, with softer air. 
The great Creator's forming care. 9° 

And shall it no attention claim 
Their beauteous infant souls to frame? 



43 



44 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Shall half your precepts tend the while 

Fair nature's lovely work to spoil, 

The native innocence deface, 

The glowing blush, the modest grace, 

On follies fix their young desire. 

To trifles bid their souls aspire, 

Fill their gay heads with whims of 

fashion. 
And slight all other cultivation, loo 

Let every useless, barren weed 
Of foolish fancy run to seed. 
And make their minds the receptacle 
Of every thing that's false and fickle; 
Where gay caprice with wanton air. 
And vanity keep constant fair, 
Where ribbons, laces, patches, puffs, 
Caps, jewels, ruffles, tippets, muffs, 
With gaudy whims of vain parade. 
Croud each apartment of the head; "o 
Where stands, display'd with costly pains, 
The toyshop of coquettish brains. 
And high-crown'd caps hang out the sign. 
And beaux as customers throng in; 
Whence sense is banish'd in disgrace. 
Where wisdom dares not show her face; 
Where the light head and vacant brain 
Spoil all ideas they contain, 
As th' air-pump kills in half a minute 
Each living thing you put within it? 120 

It must be so; by ancient rule 
The fair are nursed in folly's school, 
And all their education done 
Is none at all, or worse than none; 
Whence still proceed in maid or wife, 
The foUies and the ills of life. 
Learning is call'd our mental diet, 
That serves the hungry mind to quiet, 
That gives the genius fresh supplies, 
Till souls grow up to common size : 130 
But here, despising sense refined. 
Gay trifles feed the youthful mind. 
Chameleons thus, whose colours airy 
As often as coquettes can vary. 
Despise all dishes rich and rare. 
And diet wholly on the air ; 
Think fogs blest eating, nothing finer, 
And can on whirlwinds make a dinner; 
And thronging all to feast together. 
Fare daintily in blust'ring weather. 140 

Here to the fair alone remain 
Long years of action spent in vain; 
Perhaps she learns (what can she less?) 
The arts of dancing and of dress. 
But dress and dancing are to women, 
Their education's mint and cummin; 
These lighter graces should be taught, 
And weightier matters not forgot. 
For there, where only these are shown, 
The soul will fix on these alone. ^so 



Then most the fineries of dress, 

Her thoughts, her wish and time possess; 

She values only to be gay. 

And works to rig herself for play ; 

Weaves scores of caps with diff'rent 

spires, 
And all varieties of wires; 
Gay ruffles varying just as flow'd 
The tides and ebbings of the mode; 
Bright flow'rs, and topknots waving high, 
That float, like streamers in the sky; '^o 
Work'd catgut handkerchiefs, whose flaws 
Display the neck, as well as gauze ; 
Or network aprons somewhat thinnish, 
That cost but six weeks time to finish, 
And yet so neat, as you must own 
You could not buy for half a crown. 
Perhaps in youth (for country fashion 
Prescribed that mode of education,) 
She wastes long months in still more 

tawdry. 
And useless labours of embroid'ry; '7o 
With toil weaves up for chairs together, 
Six buttons, quite as good as leather; 
A set of curtains tapestry-work. 
The figures frowning like the Turk ; 
A tentstitch picture, work of folly. 
With portraits wrought of Dick and 

Dolly ; 
A coat 'of arms, that mark'd her house, 
Three owls rampant, the crest a goose; 
Or shows in waxwork goodman Adam, 
And serpent gay, gallanting madam, 180 
A woful mimickry of Eden, 
With fruit, that needs not be forbidden; 
All useless works, that fill for beauties 
Of time and sense their vast vacuities ; 
Of sense, which reading might bestow. 
And time, whose worth they never know. 

Now to some pop'lous city. sent. 
She comes back prouder than she went; 
Few months in vain parade she spares. 
Nor learns, but apes, politer airs ; 190 

So formal acts, with such a set air. 
That country manners far were better. 
This springs from want of just discerning, 
As pedantry from want of learning; 
And proves this maxim true to sight. 
The half-genteel are least polite. 

Yet still that active spark, the mind 
Employment constantly will find, 
And when on trifles most 'tis bent. 
Is always found most diligent; 200 

For weighty works men show most sloth in, 
But labour hard at doing nothing, 
A trade, that needs no deep concern. 
Or long apprenticeship to learn, 
To which mankind at first apply 
As naturally as to cry, 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



45 



Till at the last their latest groan 
Proclaims their idleness is done. 
Good sense, like fruits, is rais'd by toil; 
But follies sprout in ev'ry soil, ^'o 

Nor culture, pains, nor planting need, 
As moss and mushrooms have no seed. 

Thus Harriet, rising on the stage. 
Learns all the arts, that please the age, 
And studies well, as fits her station. 
The trade and politics of fashion : 
A judge of modes in silks and satins. 
From tassels down to clogs and pattens ; 
A genius, that can calculate 
When modes of dress are out of date, 220 
Cast the nativity with ease 
Of gowns, and sacks and negligees, 
And tell, exact to half a minute. 
What's out of fashion and what's in it; 
And scanning all with curious eye. 
Minutest faults in dresses spy; 
(So in nice points of sight, a flea 
Sees atoms better far than we;) 
A patriot too, she greatly labours, 
To spread her arts among her neigh- 
bours, 230 
Holds correspondences to learn 
What facts the female world concern, 
To gain authentic state-reports 
Of varied modes in distant courts, 
The present state and swift decays 
Of tuckers, handkerchiefs and stays. 
The colour'd silk that beauty wraps, 
And all the rise and fall of caps. 
Then shines, a pattern to the fair, 
Of mien, address and modish air, 240 
Of every new, affected grace, 
That plays the eye, or decks the face 
The artful smile, that beauty warms, 
And all th' hypocrisy of charms. 

On Sunday, see the haughty maid 
In all the glare of dress array'd, 
Deck'd in her most fantastic gown, 
Because a stranger's come to town. 
Heedless at church she spends the day. 
For homelier folks may serve to pray, 250 
And for devotion those may go, 
Who can have nothing else to do. 
Seauties at church must spend their care 

in 
Far other work, than pious hearing; 
They've beaux to conquer, bells to rival ; 
To make them serious were uncivil. 
For, like the preacher, they each Sunday 
Must do their whole week's work in one 
day. 

As though they meant to take by blows 
Th' opposing galleries of beaux.i 260 

^ Young people of different sexes used then 
to sit in the opposite galleries. 



To church the female squadron move. 
All arm'd with weapons used in love. 
Like colour'd ensigns gay and fair, 
High caps rise floating in the air ; 
Bright silk its varied radiance flings. 
And streamers wave in kissing-strings ; 
Each bears th' artill'ry of her charms. 
Like training bands at viewing arms. 

So once, in fear of Indian beating, 
Our grandsires bore their guns to meet- 
ing, 270 
Each man equipp'd on Sunday morn, 
With psalm-book, shot and powder-horn; 
And look'd in form, as all must grant. 
Like th' ancient, true church militant; 
Or fierce, like modern deep divines. 
Who fight with quills, like porcupines. 

Or let us turn the style and see 
Our belles assembled o'er their tea; 
Where folly sweetens ev'ry theme. 
And scandal serves for sugar'd cream. 280 

"And did you hear the news? (they cry) 
The court wear caps full three feet high. 
Built gay with wire, and at the end on't. 
Red tassels streaming like a pendant. 
Well sure, it must be vastly pretty; 
'Tis all the fashion in the city. 
And were you at the ball last night? 
Well, Chloe look'd like any fright; 
Her day is over for a toast; 
She'd now do best to act a ghost. 290 

You saw our Fanny; envy must own 
She figures, since she came from Boston. 
Good company improves one's air — 
I think the troops were station'd there. 
Poor Coelia ventured to the place; 
The small-pox quite has spoil'd her face, 
A sad affair, we all confest: 
But providence knows what is best. 
Poor Dolly too, that writ the letter 
Of love to Dick ; but Dick knew better ; 300 
A secret that; you'll not disclose it; 
There's not a person living knows it. 
Sylvia shone out, no peacock finer; 
I wonder what the fops see in her. 
Perhaps 'tis true what Harry maintains. 
She mends on intimate acquaintance." 

Hail British lands ! to whom belongs 
Unbounded privilege of tongues, 
Blest gift of freedom, prized as rare 
By all, but dearest to the fair; 310 

From grandmother of loud renown. 
Thro' long succession handed down. 
Thence with affection kind and hearty, 
Bequeath'd unlessen'd to poster'ty ! 
And all ye powers of slander, hail. 
Who teach to censure and to rail ! 
By you, kind aids to prying eyes, 
Minutest faults the fair one spies, 



46 



AMERICAN POETRY 



1 



And specks in rival toasts can mind, 

Which no one else could ever find; 320 

By shrew^dest hints and doubtful guesses, 

Tears reputations all in pieces ; 

Points out what smiles to sin advance. 

Finds assignations in a glance; 

And shews how rival toasts (you'll think) 

Break all commandments with a wink. 

So priests^ drive poets to the lurch 
By fulminations of the church, 
Mark in our title-page our crimes, 
Find heresies in double rhymes, 330 

Charge tropes with damnable opinion. 
And prove a metaphor, Arminian, 
Peep for our doctrines, as at windows, 
And pick out creeds of inuendoes. 

And now the conversation sporting 
From scandal turns to trying fortune. 
Their future luck the fair foresee 
In dreams, in cards, but most in tea. 
Each finds of love some future trophy 
In settlings left of tea, or coffee; 340 

There fate displays its book, she believes. 
And lovers swim in form of tea-leaves; 
Where oblong stalks she takes for beaux. 
And squares of leaves for billet-doux; 
Gay balls in parboil'd fragments rise, 
And specks for kisses greet her eyes. 

So Roman augurs wont to pry 
In victim's hearts for prophecy. 
Sought from the future world advices. 
By lights and lungs of sacrifices, 3So 

And read with eyes more sharp than wiz- 
ards' 
The book of fate in pigeon's gizzards ; 
Could tell what chief would be survivor, 
From aspects of an ox's liver, 
And cast what luck would fall in fights. 
By trine and quartile of its lights. 

Yet that we fairly may proceed. 
We own that ladies sometimes read. 
And grieve, that reading is confin'd 
To books that poison all the mind ; 3^'^ 
Novels and plays, (where shines display'd 
A world that nature never made,) 
Which swell their hopes with airy fancies. 
And amorous follies of romances; 
Inspire with dreams the witless maiden 
On flowery vales and fields Arcadian, 
And constant hearts no chance can sever. 
And mortal loves, that last for ever. 

For while she reads romance, the fair 
one 

'^ On the appearance of the first part of this 
poem, some of the clergy, who supposed them- 
selves the objects of the satire, raised a clamor 
against the author, as the calumniator of the 
sacred order, and undertook, from certain pas- 
sages in it, to prove that he was an infidel, or 
what they viewed as equally heretical, an Ar- 
minian. (Author's note, 1820 Edition.) 



Fails not to think herself the heroine; 37o 
For every glance, or smile, or grace, 
She finds resemblance in her face. 
Expects the world to fall before her, 
And every fop she meets adore her. 
Thus Harriet reads, and reading really 
Believes herself a young Pamela, 
The high-wrought whim, the tender strain 
Elate her mind and turn her brain : 
Before her glass, with smiling grace. 
She views the wonders of her face; 380 
There stands in admiration moveless. 
And hopes a Grandison, or Lovelace.^ 
Then shines she forth, and round her 
hovers 
The powder'd swarm of bowing lovers; 
By flames of love attracted thither. 
Fops, scholars, dunces, cits, together. 
No lamp exposed in nightly skies. 
E'er gather'd such a swarm of flies; 
Or flame in tube electric draws 
Such thronging multitudes of straws. 39o 
(For I shall still take similes 
From fire electric when I please.^) 

With vast confusion swells the sound, 
When all the coxcombs flutter round. 
What undulation wide of bows ! 
What gentle oaths and am'rous vows ! 
What double entendres all so smart! 
What sighs hot-piping from the heart ! 
What jealous leers! what angry brawls 
To gain the lady's hand at balls ! 400 

.What billet-doux, brimful of flame ! 
Acrostics lined with Harriet's name ! 
What compliments, o'er-strain'd with tell- 
ing 
Sad lies of Venus and of Helen! 
What wits half-crack'd with common- 
places 
On angels, goddesses and graces ! 
On fires of love what witty puns! 
What similes of stars and suns! 
What cringing, dancing, ogling, sighing, 
What languishing for love, and dying ! 4^0 

For lovers of all things that breathe 
Are most exposed to sudden death, 
And many a swain much famed in rhymes 
Hath died some hundred thousand times : 
Yet though love oft their breath may 

stifle, 
'Tis sung it hurts them but a trifle; 
The swain revives by equal wonder, 
As snakes will join when cut asunder, 

^ Richardson's novels were then in high re- 
quest. Young misses were enraptured with the 
love-scenes, and beaux admired the character of 
Lovelace. 

^ Certain small critics had triumphed on dis- 
covering that the writer had several times drawn 
his similes from the phaenomena of electricitv, 
(Author's notes, 1820 Edition.) 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



47 



And often murder'd still survives; 

No cat hath half so many lives. 420 

While round the fair, the coxcombs 
throng. 
With oaths, cards, billet-doux, and song, 
She spread her charms and wish'd to gain 
The heart of every simple swain; 
To all with gay, alluring air. 
She hid in smiles the fatal snare. 
For sure that snare must fatal prove, 
Where falsehood wears the form of love; 
Full oft with pleasing transport hung. 
On accents of each flattering tongue, 430 
And found a pleasure most sincere 
From each erect, attentive ear; 
For pride was her's, that oft with ease 
Despised the man she wish'd to please. 
She loved the chace, but scorn'd the prey. 
And fish'd for hearts to throw away; 
Joy'd at the tale of piercing darts, 
And tort'ring flames and pining hearts. 
And pleased perused the billet-doux. 
That said, "I die for love of you;" 44o 
Found conquest in each gallant's sighs 
And blest the murders of her eyes. 

So doctors live but by the dead. 
And pray for plagues, as daily bread; 
Thank providence for colds and fevers. 
And hold consumptions special favors; 
And think diseases kindly made, 
As blest materials of their trade. 

'Twould weary all the pow'rs of verse 
Their amorous speeches to rehearse, 45° 
Their compliments, whose vain parade 
Turns Venus to a kitchen-maid; 
With high pretence of love and honor, 
They vent their folly all upon her, 
(Ev'n as the scripture precept saith. 
More shall be given to him that hath;) 
Tell her how wond'rous fair they deem 

her. 
How handsome all the world esteem her; 
And while they flatter and adore, 
She contradicts to call for more. 460 

"And did they say I was so handsome? 
My looks — I'm sure no one can fancy 'em. 
'Tis true we're all as we were framed. 
And none have right to be ashamed; 
But as for beauty — all can tell 
I never fancied I look'd well ; 
I were a fright, had I a grain less 
You're only joking, Mr. Brainless." 

Yet beauty still maintain'd her sway, 
And bade the proudest hearts obey; 470 
Ev'n sense her glances could beguile. 
And vanquish'd wisdom with a smile; 
While merit bow'd and found no arms, 
To oppose the conquests of her charms, 
Caught all those bashful fears, that place 



The mask of folly on the face, 
That awe, that robs our airs of ease. 
And blunders, when it hopes to please; 
For men of sense will always prove 
The most forlorn of fools in love. 480 
The fair esteem' d, admired, 'tis true, 
And praised — 'tis all coquettes can do. 
And when deserving lovers came. 
Believed her smiles and own'd their flame, 
Her bosom thrill'd, with joy affected 
T increase the list, she had rejected; 
While pleased to see her arts prevail. 
To each she told the self-same tale. 
She wish'd in truth they ne'er had seen her, 
And feign'd what grief it oft had giv'n 
her,. 490 

And sad, of tender-hearted make. 
Grieved they were ruined for her sake. 
'Twas true, she own'd on recollection. 
She'd shown them proofs of kind affec- 
tion: 
But they mistook her whole intent, 
For friendship was the thing she meant. 
She wonder'd how their hearts could 

move 'em 
So strangely as to think she'd love 'em; 
vShe thought her purity above 
The low and sensual flames of love; 5oo 
And yet they made such sad ado, 
She wish'd she could have loved them too. 
She pitied them, and as a friend 
She prized them more than all mankind. 
And begg'd them not their hearts to vex. 
Or hang themselves, or break their necks. 
Told them 'twould make her life uneasy. 
If they should run forlorn, or crazy; 
Objects of love she could not deem 'em; 
But did most marv'lously esteem 'em. sio 

For 'tis esteem, coquettes dispense 
Tow'rd learning, genius, worth and sense, 
Sincere affection, truth refined. 
And all the merit of the mind. 

But love's the passion they experience 
For gold, and dress, and gay appearance. 

For ah ! what magic charms and graces 
Are found in golden suits of laces ! 
What going forth of hearts and souls 
Tow'rd glare of gilded button-holes! 520 
What lady's heart can stand its ground 
'Gainst hats with glittering edging bound? 
While vests and shoes and hose conspire, 
And gloves and ruffles fan the fire, 
And broadcloths, cut by tailor's arts. 
Spread fatal nets for female hearts. 

And oh, what charms more potent shine, 
Drawn from the dark Peruvian mine ! 
What spells and talismans of Venus 
Are found in dollars, crowns and 
guineas ! 53° 



48 



AMERICAN POETRY 



In purse of gold, a single stiver 
Beats all the darts in Cupid's quiver, 
What heart so constant, but must veer, 
When drawn by thousand pounds a year ! 
How many fair ones ev'ry day 
To houses fine have fall'n a prey, 
Been forced on stores of goods to fix, 
Or carried oft in coach and six ! 
For Coelia, merit found no dart; 
Five thousand sterling broke her heart, 54° 
So witches, hunters say, confound 'em, 
For silver bullets only wound 'em. 

But now the time was come, our fair 
Should all the plagues of passion share, 
And after ev'ry heart she'd won, 
Bj/^ sad disaster lose her own. 
So true the ancient proverb sayeth, 
'Edge-tools are dang'rous things to play 

with ;' 
The fisher, ev'ry gudgeon hooking, 549 
May chance himself to catch a ducking; 
The child that plays with fire, in pain 
Will burn its fingers now and then ; 
And from the dutchess to the laundress. 
Coquettes are seldom salamanders. 

For lo ! Dick Hairbrain heaves in sight. 
From foreign climes returning bright; 
He danced, he sung to admiration. 
He swore to gen'ral acceptation, 
In airs and dress so great his merit, 
He shone — no lady's eyes could bear it. s6o 
Poor Harriet saw ; her heart was stouter ; 
She gather'd ail her smiles about her; 
Hoped by her eyes to gain the laurels. 
And charm him down, as snakes do squir- 
rels. 
So prized his love and wish'd to win it. 
That all her hopes were center'd in it; 
And took such pains his heart to move. 
Herself fell desp'rately in love; 
Though great her skill in am'rous tricks, 
She could not hope to equal Dick's ; 57o 
Her fate she ventured on his trial. 
And lost her birthright of denial. 

And here her brightest hopes miscarry ; 
For Dick was too gallant to marry. 
He own'd she'd charms for those who 

need 'em. 
But he, be sure, was all for freedom; 
So, left in hopeless flames to burn, 
Gay Dick esteem'd her in her turn. 
In love, a lady once given over 
Is never fated to recover, sSo 

Doom'd to indulge her troubled fancies, 
And feed her passion by romances ; 
And always amorous, always changing. 
From coxcomb still to coxcomb ranging. 
Finds in her heart a void, which still 
Succeeding beaux can never fill : 



As shadows vary o'er a glass, 

Each holds in turn the vacant place; 

She doats upon her earliest pain. 

And following thousands loves in vain. S9o 

Poor Harriet now hath had her day; 
No more the beaux confess her sway; 
New beauties push her from the stage; 
She trembles at th' approach of age, 
And starts to view the alter'd face. 
That wrinkles at her in her glass : 
So Satan, in the monk's tradition, 
Fear'd, when he met his apparition. 

At length her name each coxcomb can- 
cels 599 
From standing lists of toasts and angels ; 
And slighted where she shone before, 
A grace and goddess now no more, 
Despised by all, and doom'd to meet 
Her lovers at her rival's feet. 
She flies assemblies, shuns the ball. 
And cries out, vanity, on all; 
Affects to scorn the tinsel-shows 
Of glittering belles and gaudy beaux; 
Nor longer hopes to hide by dress 
The tracks of age upon her face. 6'° 
Now careless grown of airs polite, 
Her noonday nightcap meets the sight; 
Her hair uncomb'd collects together, 
W^ith ornaments of many a feather; 
Her staj's for easiness thrown by, 
Her rumpled handkerchief awry, 
A careless figure half undress'd, 
(The reader's wits may guess the rest;) 
All points of dress and neatness carried, 
As though she'd been a twelvemonth 
married ; 6^° 
She spends her breath, as years prevail, 
At this sad wicked world to rail. 
To slander all her sex impromptu, 
And wonder what the times will come to. 

Tom Brainless, at the close o- last year. 
Had been six years a rev'rend Pastor, 
And now resolved, to smooth his life. 
To seek the blessing of a wife. 
His brethren saw his amorous temper, 
And recommended fair Miss Simper, 630 
Who fond, they heard, of sacred truth, 
Had left her levities of youth, 
Grown fit for ministerial union. 
And grave, as Christian's wife in Bun- 
yan. 

On this he rigg'd him in his best, 
And got his old grey wig new dress'd, 
Fix'd on his suit of sable stuffs, 
And brush'd the powder from the cuffs. 
With black silk stockings, yet in being, ■ 
The same he took his first degree in; 640 
Procured a horse of breed from Europe, 
And learn'd to mount him by the stirrup. 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



49 



And set forth fierce to court the maid; 
His white-hair'd Deacon went for aid; 
And on the right, in solemn mode, 
The Reverend Mr. Brainless rode. 
Thus grave, the courtly pair advance, 
Like knight and squire in famed romance. 
The priest then bow'd in sober gesture, 
And all in scripture terms address'd her; 
He'd found, for reasons amply knov^fn, 651 
It was not good to be alone, 
And thought his duty led to trying 
The great command of multiplying; 
So with submission, by her leave, 
He'd come to look him out an Eve, 
And hoped, in pilgrimage of life, 
To find an helpmate in a wife, 
A wife discreet and fair withal, 
To make amends for Adam's fall. 660 

In short, the bargain finish'd soon, 
A reverend Doctor made them one. 

And now the joyful people rouze all 
To celebrate their priest's espousal; 
And first, by kind agreement set. 
In case their priest a wife could get. 
The parish vote him five pounds clear, 
T' increase his salary every year. 
Then swift the tag-rag gentry come 
To welcome Madam Brainless home ; 670 
Wish their good Parson joy; with pride 
In order round salute the bride; 
At home, at visits and at meetings. 
To Madam all allow precedence; 
Greet her at church with rev'rence due. 
And next the pulpit fix her pew. 

July, 1773. 

LINES 

addressed to 

Messrs. Dwight and Barlow 

On the projected publication of their 
Poems in London ^ 

December, 1775 

Pleased with the vision of a deathless 
name. 

You seek perhaps a flowery road to fame; 

Where distant far from ocean's stormy 
roar. 

Wind the pure vales and smiles the tran- 
quil shore, 

Where hills sublime in vernal sweetness 
rise, 

1 Dwight's Conquest of Canaan, and Barlow's 
Vision of Columbus, afterwards enlarged and 
entitled. The Columbiad. This designed publi- 
cation was prevented by the Revolutionary war. 
(1 his and the other notes to the poem were 
supplied by the author in the edition of 1820.) 



And opening prospects charm the wan- 
d'ring eyes. 

While the gay dawn, propitious on your 
way. 

Crimsons the east and lights the orient 
day. 
Yet vain the hope, that waits the prom- 
ised bays, 

Though conscious merit claim the debt of 
praise; lo 

Still sneering Folly wars with every art, 

Still ambush'd Envy aims the secret dart, 

Through hosts of foes the course of 
glory lies. 

Toil wins the field and hazard gains the 
prize. 
For dangers -wait, and fears of un- 
known name, 

The long, the dreary pilgrimage of fame; 

Each bard invades, each judging dunce 
reviews. 

And every critic wars with every Muse. 
As horror gloom'd along the dark'nine 
path. 

When famed Ulysses2 trod the vales of 
death ; 20 

Terrific voices rose, and all around 

Dire forms sprang flaming from the rock- 
ing ground; 

Fierce Cerberus lour'd, and yawning o'er 
his way, 

Hell flash'd the terrors of infernal day; 

The scornful fiends opposed his bold 
career. 

And sung in shrieks the prelude of his 

fear. 
Thus at each trembhng step, the Poet 

hears 
Dread groans and hisses murmur in his 

ears ; 
In every breeze a shaft malignant flies, 
Cerberean forms in every rival rise ; ' 30 
There yawning wide before his path ex- 
tends 
Th' infernal gulph, where Critics are the 

fiends ; 
From gloomy Styx pale conflagrations 

gleam. 
And dread oblivion rolls in Lethe's 

stream. 
And see, where yon proud Isle 3 her 

shores extends 
- Homer's Odyssey, Book II. 
= Great Britain.— See the British Reviewers, 
tor the fulfilment of this prediction. 

The English scribblers began their abuse, by 
asserting that all the Americans' were cowards 
Subsequent events have taught them a reverent 
silence on that topic. They now labour, with 
equal wit and eloquence, to prove our univer- 



50 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The cloud of Critics on your Muse de- 
scends ! 

From every side, with deadly force, shall 
steer 

The fierce Review, the censuring Gazet- 
teer, 

Like Magazines, that pointless jests supply. 

And quick Gazettes, that coin the cur- 
rent lie. 40 

Each coffee-house shall catch the loud 
alarms. 

The Temple swarm, and Grub-street 
wake to arms. 

As vultures, sailing through the dark- 
en'd air. 

Whet their keen talons, and their beaks 
prepare. 

O'er warring armies wait th' approaching 
fray. 

And state their wishes on the future prey; 

Each cens'rer thus the tempting lure pur- 
sues. 

And hangs o'er battles of your Epic muse, 

The pamper'd critic feeds on slaughter'd 
names, 

And each new bard a welcome feast pro- 
claims, 50 
Such men to charm, could Homer's muse 
avail, 

Who read to cavil, and who write to rail; 

When ardent genius pours the bold sub- 
lime. 

Carp at the style, or nibble at the rhyme; 

Misstate your thoughts, misconstrue your 
design, 

And cite, as samples, every feebler line? 

To praise your muse be your admirer's 
care ; 

Her faults alone the critics make their 
share. 

Where you succeed, beyond their sphere 
you've flown, 

But where you fail, the realm is all their 
own. ^ 

By right they claim whatever faults are 
found, 

For nonsense trespasses on critic ground; 

By right they claim the blunders of your 
lays. 

As lords of manors seize on waifs and 
strays. 
Yet heed not these, but join the sons 
of song, 

sal ignorance and stupidity. The present writers 
in the Quarterly Review have made it the vehicle 
of insult and slander upon our genius and 
manners. Whether they will be more successful 
with the pen, than with the s\vord, in prostrat- 
ing America at their feet, Time, the ancient 
arbiter, will determine in due season. 



And scorn the censures of the envious 

throng; 
Prove to the world, in these new-dawning 

skies. 
What genius kindles and what arts arise; 
What fav'ring Muses lent their willing 

aid, 
As gay through Pindus' flowery paths 

you stray' d ; 70 

While in your strains the purest morals 

flow'd. 
Rules to the great, and lessons to the 

good. 
All Virtue's friends are yours. Disclose 

the lays ; 
Your country's heroes claim the debt of 

praise; 
Fame shall assent, and future years ad- 
mire 
Barlow's strong flight, and Dwight's 

Homeric fire. 

1785. 



I 



M'FINGAL 

CANTO III 

THE LIBERTY POLEi 

Now warm with ministerial ire, 
Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'Squire, 
And on his striding steps attends 
His desperate clan of Tory friends. 
When sudden met his wrathful eye 
A pole ascending through the sky. 
Which numerous throngs of whiggish race^ 
Were raising in the market-^lace. 
Not higher school-boy's kites aspire, 
Or royal mast, or country spire ; 1° 

Like spears at Brobdignagian tilting. 
Or Satan's walking-staff in Milton. 
And on its top, the flag unfurl'd 
Waved triumph o'er the gazing world, 
Inscribed with inconsistent types 
Of Liberty and thirteen stripes? 
Beneath, the crowd without delay 
The dedication-rites essay. 
And gladly pay, in antient fashion. 
The ceremonies of libation; 20 

^ The first two cantos, originally published as 
one in 1776, tell of the debate between Honorius, 
the Whig, and M'Fingal, the Loyalist. The 
fourth, published with the" third in 1782, con- 
cluded the story with the forced flight of 
M'Fingal. 

^ The American flag. It would doubtless be 
wrong to imagine that the stripes bear any 
allusion to the slave trade. (This and the other 
notes to the poem were supplied by the author 
in the edition of 1820.) 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



51 



While briskly to each patriot lip 
Walks eager round the inspiring flip : ^ 
Delicious draught ! whose powers inherit 
The quintessence of public spirit; 
Which whoso tastes, perceives his mind 
To nobler politics refined; 
Or roused to martial controversy, 
As from transforming cups of Circe; 
Or warm'd with Homer's nectar'd liquor, 
That fill'd the veins of gods with ichor. 30 
At hand for new supplies in store. 
The tavern opes its friendly door. 
Whence to and fro the waiters run, 
Like bucket-men at fires in town. 
Then with three shouts that tore the sky, 
'Tis consecrate to Liberty. 
To guard it from th' attacks of Tories, 
A grand Committee cull'd of four is; 
Who foremost on the patriot spot, 
Had brought the flip, and paid the shot. 40 

By this, M'Fingal with his train 
Advanced upon th' adjacent plain, 
And full with loyalty possest, 
Pour'd forth the zeal, that fired his breast. 

"What mad-brain'd rebel gave commis- 
sion, 
To raise this May-pole of sedition? 
Like Babel, rear'd by bawling throngs, 
With like confusion too of tongues. 
To point at heaven and summon down 
The thunders of the British crown? so 
Say, will this paltry '^ole secure 
Your forfeit heads from Gage's power? 
Attack'd by heroes brave and crafty, 
Is this to stand your ark of safety; 
Or driven by Scottish laird and laddie. 
Think ye to rest beneath its shadow? 
When bombs, like fiery serpents, fly, 
And balls rush hissing through the sky. 
Will this vile Pole, devote to freedom. 
Save like the Jewish pole in Edom; 60 
Or like the brazen snake of Moses, 
Cure your crackt skulls and batter'd noses? 

"Ye dupes to every factious rogue 
And tavern-prating demagogue. 
Whose tongue but rings, with sound more 

full, 
On th' empty drumhead of his scull; 
• Behold you not what noisy fools 
Use you, worse simpletons, for tools? 
For Liberty, in your own by-sense, 
Is but for crimes a patent license, 7o 

To break of law th' Egyptian yoke, 
And throw the world in common stock ; 
Reduce all grievances and ills 
To Magna Charta of your wills; 

■^ Flip, a liquor composed of beer, rum, and 
sugar; the common treat at that time in the 
country towns of New England. 



Establish cheats and frauds and nonsense. 
Framed to the model of your conscience; 
Cry justice down, as out of fashion. 
And fix its scale of depreciation; 2 
Defy all creditors to trouble ye, 
And keep new years of Jewish jubilee; 80 
Drive judges out,^ like Aaron's calves, 
By jurisdiction of white staves. 
And make the bar and bench and steeple 
Submit t' our Sovereign Lord, The People ; 
By plunder rise to power and glory, 
And brand all property, as Tory; 
Expose all wares to lawful seizures 
By mobbers or monopolizers; 
Break heads and windows and the peace. 
For your own interest and increase ; 9° 
Dispute and pray and fight and groan 
For public good, and mean your own; 
Prevent the law by fierce attacks 
From quitting scores upon your backs; 
Lay your old dread, the gallows, low, 
And seize the stocks, your ancient foe, 
And turn them to convenient engines 
To wreak your patriotic vengeance; 
While all, your rights who understand. 
Confess them in their owner's hand; 1°° 
And when by clamours and confusions. 
Your freedom's grown a public nuisance. 
Cry "Liberty," with powerful yearning. 
As he does "Fire !" whose house is burning; 
Though he already has much more 
Than he, can find occasion for. 
While every clown, that tills the plains. 
Though bankrupt in estate and brains, 
By this new light transform'd to traitor, 
Forsakes his plough to turn dictator, "o 
Starts an haranguing chief of Whigs, 
And drags you by the ears, like pigs. 
All bluster, arm'd with factious licence. 
New-born at once to politicians. 
Each leather-apron'd dunce, grown wise. 
Presents his forward face t' advise. 
And tatter'd legislators meet, 
From every workshop through the street. 
His goose the tailor finds new use in. 
To patch and turn the Constitution ; 120 
The blacksmith comes with sledge and 

grate 
To iron-bind the wheels of state; 
The quack forbears his patients' souse. 
To purge the Council and the House; 

2 Alluding to the depreciation of the Conti- 
nental paper money. Congress finally ascertained 
the course of its declension at different periods, 
by what was called, A Scale of Depreciation. 

^ On the commencement of the war, the courts 
of justice were every where shut up. In some 
instances, the judges were forced to retire, by 
the people, who assembled in multitudes, armed 
with white staves. 



52 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The tinker quits his moulds and doxies, 
To cast assembly-men and proxies. 
From dunghills deep of blackest hue, 
Your dirt-bred patriots spring to view, 
To wealth and power and honors rise, 
Like new-wing'd maggots changed to 
flies, 130 

And fluttering round in high parade. 
Strut in the robe, or gay cockade. 
See Arnold quits, for ways more certain, 
His bankrupt-perj'ries for his fortune. 
Brews rum no longer in his store. 
Jockey and skipper now no more. 
Forsakes his warehouses and docks, 
And writs of slander for the pox;i 
And cleansed by patriotism from shame. 
Grows General of the foremost name. 14° 
For in this ferment of the stream 
The dregs have work'd up to the brim, 
And by the rule of topsy-turvies, 
The sum stands foaming on the surface. 
You've caused your pyramid t' ascend. 
And set it on the little end. 
Like Hudibras, your empire's made. 
Whose crupper had o'ertopp'd his head. 
You've push'd and turn'd the whole world 

up- 
Side down, and got yourself at top, 15° 
While all the great ones of your state 
Are crush'd beneath the popular weight; 
Nor can you boast, this present hour. 
The shadow of the form of power. 
For what's your Congress 2 or its end? 
A power, t' advise and recommend; 
To call forth troops, adjust your quotas — 
And yet no soul is bound to notice ; 
To pawn your faith to th' utmost limit, 
But cannot bind you to redeem it; 160 
And when in want no more in them lies. 
Than begging from your States-Assem- 
blies, 
Can utter oracles of dread, 
Like friar Bacon's brazen head. 
But when a faction dares dispute 'em. 
Has ne'er an arm to execute 'em : 

^ Arnold's perjuries at the time of his pre- 
tended bankruptcy, which was the first rise of 
his fortune; and his curious lawsuit against a 
brother skipper, who had charged him with hay- 
ing caught the above-mentioned disease, by his 
connection with a certain African princess^ in 
the West Indies, were among the early promises 
of his future greatness, and honors. 

^ The author here, in a truestrain of patriotic 
censure, pointed out the principal defects in the 
first federal constitution of the United States; 
all which have been since removed in the new 
Constitution, established in the year 1789. So 
that the prophecy below, You'll ne'er have sense 
enough to mend it, must be ranked among the 
other sage blunders of his second-sighted hero. 
Land. Edit. 



As tho' you chose supreme dictators, 
And put them under conservators. 
You've but pursued the self-same way 
With Shakespeare's Trinc'lo^ in the play; 
"You shall be Viceroys here, 'tis true, ^71 
"But we'll be Viceroys over you." 
What wild confusion hence must ensue? 
Tho' common danger yet cements you : 
So some wreck'd vessel, all in shatters. 
Is held up by surrounding waters. 
But stranded, when the pressure ceases. 
Falls by its rottenness to pieces. 
And fall it. must ! if wars were ended. 
You'll ne'er have sense enough to mend 
it : 180 

But creeping on, by low intrigues. 
Like vermin of a thousand legs,* 
'Twill find as short a life assign'd. 
As all things else of reptile kind. 
Your Commonwealth's a common harlot. 
The property of every varlet; 
Which now in taste, and full employ, 
All sorts admire, as all enjoy: 
But soon a batter'd strumpet grown, 
You'll curse and drum her out of town. 190 
Such is the government you chose ; 
F'or this you bade the world be foes ; 
For this, so mark'd for dissolution, 
You scorn the British Constitution, 
That constitution form'd by sages. 
The wonder of all modern ages; 
Which owns no failure in reality. 
Except corruption and venality; 
And merely proves the adage just, 199 

That best things spoil'd corrupt to worst : 
So man supreme in earthly station. 
And mighty lord of this creation. 
When once his corse is dead as herring, 
Becomes the most offensive carrion. 
And sooner breeds the plague, 'tis found. 
Than all beasts rotting on the ground. 
Yet with republics to dismay us. 
You've call'd up Anarchy from chaos. 
With all the followers of her school, 
L^proar and Rage and wild Misrule : 210 
For whom this rout of Whigs distracted, 
And ravings dire of every crack'd head : 
These new-cast legislative engines 
Of County-meetings and Conventions; 
Committees vile of correspondence. 
And mobs, whose tricks have almost un- 
done 's : 
While reason fails to check your course. 
And Loyalty's kick'd out of doors, 

^ This political plan of Trinculo in the "Tem- 
pest," may be found in the old folio edition of 
Shakespeare. It has since been expunged by 
some of his wise commentators. 

■* Millepedes. 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



53 



And Folly, like inviting landlord, 219 

Hoists on your poles her royal standard; 
While the king's friends, in doleful dumps. 
Have worn their courage to the stumps, 
And leaving George in sad disaster. 
Most sinfully deny their master. 
What furies raged when you, in sea, 
In shape of Indians, drown'd the tea;i 
When your gay sparks, fatigued to watch it, 
Assumed the moggison and hatchet, 
With wampum'd blankets hid their laces. 
And like their sweethearts, primed^ their 

faces : ^30 

While not a red-coat dared oppose. 
And scarce a Tory show'd his nose; 
While Hutchinson,^ for sure retreat, 
Manoeuvred to his country seat. 
And thence affrighted, in the suds. 
Stole off bareheaded through the woods. 
"Have you not roused your mobs to join, 
And make Mandamus-men resign, 238 

Call'd forth each duffil-drest curmudgeon. 
With dirty trowsers and white bludgeon, 
Forced all our Councils through the land, 
To yield their necks at your command ; 
While paleness marks their late disgraces, 
Through all their rueful length of faces? 
"Have you not caused as woeful work 
In our good city of New- York, 
When all the rabble, well cockaded, 
In triumph through the streets paraded. 
And mobb'd the Tories, scared their 

spouses, 
And ransack'd all the custom-houses;* 250 

1 The cargo of tea sent to Boston, after being 
guarded for twenty nights, by voluntary parties 
of the Whigs, to prevent its being clandestinely 
brought ashore, was thrown into the sea, by a 
party of about two hundred young men, dressed, 
armed and painted like Indians; but many a 
ruffled shirt and laced vest appeared under their 
blankets. * Primed, i.e., painted. 

' When the leading Whigs in Boston found 
it impossible to procure the Tea to be sent 
back, they secretly resolved on its destruction 
and prepared all the necessary means. To 
cover the design, a meeting of the people of 
the whole Country was convened on the day 
appointed, and spent their time in grave con- 
sultation on the question, what should be done 
to prevent its being landed and sold. The 
arrival of the Indians put an end to the de- 
bate, at the moment, when one of the foremost 
of the whig-orators was declaiming against all 
violent measures. Hutchinson was alarmed at 
the meeting, and retired privately in the morn- 
ing, to his country seat at Milton. Whether 
from mistake or design, information was sent 
to him, that the mob was coming to pull down 
his house. He escaped in the utmost haste 
across the fields. The story of the day was, 
that the alarm was given, at the time, when he 
sate half-shaved under the hands of his barber. 

* The custom-house was broken open at New 
York, and all public monies seized. 



Made such a tumult, bluster, jarring. 
That mid the clash of tempests warring, 
Smith's^ weather-cock, in veers forlorn, 
Could hardly tell which way to turn? 
Burn'd effigies of higher powers. 
Contrived in planetary hours ; 
As witches with clay-images 
Destroy or torture whom they please : 
Till fired with rage, th' ungrateful club 
Spared not your best friend, Beelzebub, 260 
O'erlook'd his favors, and forgot 
The reverence due Lis cloven foot, » 

And in the selfsame furnace frying, 
Stew'd him, and North and Bute and 
Tryon?6 

Did you not, in as vile and shallow way, 
P'right our poor Philadelphian, Galloway, 
Your Congress, when the loyal ribald 
Belied, berated and bescribbled? 
What ropes '^ and halters did you send, 
Terrific emblems of his end, 270 

Till, least he'd hang in more than effigy. 
Fled in a fog the trembhng refugee? 
Now rising in progression fatal. 
Have you not ventured to give battle? 
When Treason chaced our heroes trou- 
bled, 
With rusty gun,^ and leathern doublet; 
Turn'd all stone-walls and groves and 

bushes. 
To batteries arm'd with blunderbusses; 
And with deep wounds, that fate por- 
tend, 
Gaul'd many a Briton's latter end; 280 
Drove them to Boston, as in jail, 
Confined without mainprize or bail. 

^ William Smith, an eminent Lawyer in New 
York. He at first opposed the claims of Britain, 
but after wavering some time, at last joined 
our enemy. He has since been Chief Justice 
in Canada. 

*_ Tryon was Governor of New York and a 
British General during the war. He had the 
glory of destroying the towns of Fairfield and 
Norwalk. Burnings in effigy were frequently 
the amusements of the mob at that period, and 
in imitation of the former custom of the Eng- 
lish in burning annually the Pope, the Devil, 
and the Pretender, Beelzebub, with his usual 
figure and accoutrements, was always joined in 
the conflagration with the other obnoxious char- 
acters. 

" Galloway began by being a flaming patriot; 
but being disgusted at his own want of influence. * 
and the greater popularity of others, he turned 
Tory, wrote against the measures of Congress, 
and absconded. Just before his escape, a trunk 
was put on board a vessel in the Delaware, 
to be delivered to Joseph Galloway, Esquire. 
On opening it, he found it contained only, as 
Shakespeare says, "A halter gratis, and leave 
to hang himself." 

^ At the battle of Lexington. 



54 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Were not these deeds enough betimes, 
To heap the measure of your crimes : 
But in this loyal town and dwelling, 
You raise these ensigns of rebellion? 
'Tis done! fair Mercy shuts her door; 
And Vengeance now shall sleep no more. 
Rise then, my friends, in terror rise. 
And sweep this scandal from the skies. 290 
You'll see their Dagon, though well 

jointed, 
Will shrink before the Lord's anointed ;i 
And like old Jericho's proud wall. 
Before your ram's horns prostrate fall," 
This said, our 'Squire, yet undismay'd, 
Call'd forth the Constable to aid. 
And bade him read, in nearer station, 
The Riot-act and Proclamation. 
He swift, advancing to the ring, 299 

Began, "Our Sovereign Lord, the King" — 
Wnen thousand clam'rous tongues he 

hears, 
And clubs and stones assail his ears. 
To fly was vain; to fight was idle; 
By foes encompass'd in the middle, 
His hope, in stratagems, he found, 
And fell right craftily to ground; 
Then crept to seek an hiding place, 
'Twas all he could, beneath a brace ; 
Where soon the conqu'ring crew espied him. 
And where he lurk'd, they caught and 

tied him. 310 

At once with resolution fatal. 
Both Whigs and Tories rush'd to battle. 
Instead of weapons, either band 
Seized on such arms as came to hand. 
And as famed Ovid 2 paints th' adventures 
Of wrangling Lapithae and Centaurs, 
Who at their feast, by Bacchus led, 
Threw bottles at each other's head; 
And these arms failing in their scufHes, 
Attack'd with andirons, tongs and shovels : 
So clubs and billets, staves and stones 32' 
Met fierce, encountering every sconce. 
And cover'd o'er with knobs and pains 
Each void receptacle for brains ; 
Their clamours rend the skies around, 
The hills rebellow to the sound; 
And many a groan increas'd the din 
From batter'd nose and broken shin. 
M'FiNGAL, rising at the word. 
Drew forth his old militia-sword; 33° 

Thrice cried "King George," as erst in 

distress, 
Knights of romance invoked a mistress ; 

^ The Tory clergy always stiled the King, the 
Lord's Anointed. The language of Cromwell's 
and Charles' days was yet frequent in New 
England. 

^ See Ovid's Metamorphoses, book 12th. 



And brandishing the blade in air, 
Struck terror through th' opposing war. 
The Whigs, unsafe within the wind 
Of such commotion, shrunk behind. 
With whirling steel around address'd. 
Fierce through their thickest throng he 

press'd, 
(Who roll'd on either side in arch, 
Like Red Sea waves in Israel's march) 34° 
And like a meteor rushing through, 
Struck on their Pole a vengeful blow. 
Around, the Whigs, of clubs and stones 
Discharged whole voUies, in platoons, 
That o'er in whistling fury fly; 
But not a foe dares venture nigh. 
And now perhaps with glory crown'd 
Our 'Squire had fell'd the pole to ground, 
Had not some Pow'r, a whig at heart. 
Descended down and took their part;^ 350 
(Whether 'twere Pallas, Mars or Iris, 
'Tis scarce worth while to make inquiries) 
Who at the nick of time alarming, 
Assumed the solemn form of Chairman, 
Address'd a Whig, in every scene 
The stoutest wrestler on the green. 
And pointed where the spade was found, 
Late used to set their pole in ground. 
And urged, with equal arms and might. 
To dare our 'Squire to single fight. _ 360 
The Whig thus arm'd, untaught to yield, 
Advanced tremendous to the field : 
Nor did M'Fingal shun the foe. 
But stood to brave the desp'rate blow; 
While all the party gazed, suspended 
To see the deadly combat ended; 
And Jove* in equal balance weigh'd 
The sword against the brandish'd spade, 
He weigh'd; but lighter than a dream. 
The sword flew up, and kick'd the beam. 37° 
Our 'Squire on tiptoe rising fair 
Lifts high a noble stroke in air, 
Which hung not, but like dreadful engines. 
Descended on his foe in vengeance. 
But ah ! in danger, with dishonor 
The sword perfidious fails its owner; 
That sword, which oft had stood its 

ground. 
By huge trainbands encircled round; 
And on the bench, with blade right loyal. 
Had won the day at many a trial,^ 380 

^ The learned reader will readily observe the 
allusions in this scene, to the single combats of 
Paris and Menelaus in Homer, ^neas and the 
Turnus in Virgil, and Michael and Satan in 
Milton. 

^ Jupiter ipse duas aequato examine lances 
Sustinet & fata imponit diversa duorum, 
Quern damnet labor, &c. — JEnid, 12. 

^ It was the fashion in New England at thit 
time, for judges to wear swords on the bench. 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



55 



Of stones and clubs had braved th' alarms, 
Shrunk from these new Vulcanian arms.^ 
The spade so temper'd from the sledge, 
Nor keen nor solid harm'd its edge, 
Now met it, from his arm of might. 
Descending with steep force to smite; 
The blade snapp'd short — and from his 

hand, 
With rust embrown'd the glittering sand. 
Swift turn'd M'Fingal at the view, 
And call'd to aid th' attendant crew, 390 
In vain; the Tories all had run, 
When scarce the fight was well begun; 
Their setting wigs he saw decreas'd 
Far in th' horizon tow'rd the west. 
Amazed he view'd the shameful sight, 
And saw no refuge, but in flight: 
But age unwieldy check'd his pace, 
Though fear had wing'd his flving race; 
For not a trifling prize at stake; 
No less than great M'Fingal's back.2 400 
^Yith legs and arms he work'd his course, 
Like rider that outgoes his horse. 
And labor'd hard to get away, as 
Old Satan 3 struggling on through chaos; 
'Till looking back, he spied in rear 
The spade-arm'd chief advanced too near : 
Then stopp'd and seized a stone, that lay 
An ancient landmark near the way; 
Nor shall we as old bards have done. 
Affirm it weigh'd an hundred ton;* 410 
But such a stone, as at a shift 
A modern might suffice to lift, 
Since men, to credit their enigmas. 
Are dwindled down to dwarfs and pigmies. 
And giants exiled with their cronies 
To Brobdignags and Patagonias. 
But while our Hero turn'd him round, 
And tugg'd to raise it from the ground, 
The fatal spade discharged a blow 
Tremendous on his rear below : 4^° 

His bent knee fail'd.s and void of strength 
Stretch'd on the ground his manly length. 
Like ancient oak o'erturn'd, he lay. 
Or tower to tempests fall'n a prey, 

^ Postquam arma Dei ad Vulcania ventum est, 
Mortalis mucro, glacies ceu futilis, ictu 
Dissiluit; fulva resplendent fragmina arena. 

— Virgil. 
— The sword 
Was given him temper'd so, that neither keen 
Nor solid might resist that edge; it met 
The sword of Satan with steep force to smite 
Descending and in half cut sheer. — Milton. 
^ nee enim levia aut ludicra petuntur 
Praemia, sed Tumi de vita et sanguine 
certant. — Virgil. s In Milton. 

*This thought is taken from Juvenal, Satire 15. 
''Genua labant . . . incidit ictus, 
Ingens ad terram duplicato poplite Turnus. 

— Virgil. 



Or mountain sunk with all his pines. 
Or flow'r the plow to dust consigns. 
And more things else — but all men know 

'em, 
If slightly versed in epic poem. 
At once the crew, at this dread crisis. 
Fall on, and bind him, ere he rises ; 43° 
And with loud shouts and joyful soul, 
Conduct him prisoner to the pole. 
When now the mob in lucky hour 
Had got their en'mies in their power, 
They first proceed, by grave command, 
To take the Constable in hand. 
Then from the pole's sublimest top 
The active crew let down the rope. 
At once its other end in haste bind. 
And make it fast upon his waistband; 440 
Till like the earth, as stretch'd on tenter, 
He hung self-balanced on his centre.^ 
Then upwards, all hands hoisting sail. 
They swung him, like a keg of ale, 
Till to the pinnacle in height 
He vaulted, like balloon or kite. 
As Socrates 7 of old at first did 
To aid philosophy get hoisted. 
And found his thoughts flow strangely 

clear. 
Swung in a basket in mid air: 450 

Our culprit thus, in purer sky, 
With like advantage raised his eye. 
And looking forth in prospect wide, 
His Tory errors clearly spied. 
And from his elevated station, 
With bawling voice began addressing. 

'Good Gentlemen and friends and kin. 
For heaven's sake hear, if not for mine! 
I here renounce the Pope, the Turks, 459 
The King, the Devil and all their works; 
And will, set me but once at ease, 
Turn Whig or Christian, what you please; 
And always mind your rules so justly, 
Should I live long as old Methus'lah, 
1 11 never join in British rage, 
Nor help Lord North, nor Gen'ral Gage; 
Nor hft my gun in future fights. 
Nor take away your Charter-rights; 
Nor overcome your new-raised levies. 
Destroy your towns, nor burn your 

navies ; 470 

Nor cut your poles down while I've breath. 
Though raised more thick than hatchel- 

teeth : 
But leave King George and all his elves— 
To do their conq'ring work themselves." 

^ And earth self-balanced on her centre hung. 

— Milton. 

■^ In Aristophanes' Comedy of the Clouds, 
bocrates is represented as hoisted in a basket 
to aid contemplation. 



S6 



AMERICAN POETRY 



They said, they lower'd him down in 
state, 
Spread at all points, like falling cat; 
But took a vote first on the question. 
That they'd accept this full confession, 
And to their fellowship and favor, 
Restore him on his good behaviour. 480 

Not so our 'Squire submits to rule, 
But stood, heroic as a mule. 
"You'll find it all in vain," quoth he, 
"To play your rebel tricks on me. 
All punishments, the world can render, 
Serve only to provoke th' offender ; 
The will gains strength from treatment 

horrid. 
As hides grow harder when they're cur- 
ried. 
No man e'er felt the halter draw. 
With good opinion of the law; 49° 

Or held in method orthodox 
His love of justice, in the stocks; 
Or fail'd to lose by sheriff's shears 
At once his loyalty and ears. 
Have you made Murray^- look less big. 
Or smoked old Williams^ to a Whig? 
Did our mobb'd Ol'ver- quit his station, 
Or heed his vows of resignation? 
Has Rivington,3 in dread of stripes. 
Ceased lying since you stole his types? soo 
And can you think my faith will alter. 
By tarring, whipping or the halter? 
I'll stand the worst ; for recompense 
I trust King George and Providence. 
And when with conquest gain'd I come, 
Array'd in law and terror home, 
Ye'll rue this inauspicious morn. 
And curse the day, when ye were born. 
In Job's high style of imprecations. 
With all his plagues, without his pa- 
tience." 510 
Meanwhile beside the pole the guard 
A Bench of Justice had prepared,* 
Were sitting round in awful sort 
The grand Committee hold their Court; 

^ Members of the Mandamus Council in Mas- 
sachusetts. The operation of _ smoking Tories 
was thus performed. The victim was confined 
in a close room before a large fire of green 
wood, and a cover applied to the top of the 
chimney. 

^ Thomas Oliver, Esq., Lieut. Governor of 
Massachusetts. He was surrounded at his seat 
in the country and intimidated by the mob into 
the signing of his resignation. 

" Rivington was a Tory Printer in New York. 
Just before the commencement of the war, a 
party from New Haven attacked his press, and 
carried off or destroyed the types. 

* An imitation of legal forms was universally 
practiced by the mobs in New-England, in the 
trial and condemnation of Tories. This marks 
a curious trait of national character. 



While all the crew, in silent awe, 
Wait from their lips the lore of law. 
Few moments with deliberation 
They hold the solemn consultation; 
When soon in judgment all agree. 
And Clerk proclaims the dread decree ; s^o 

"That 'Squire M'Fingal having grown 
The vilest Tory in the town, 
And now in full examination 
Convicted by his own confession. 
Finding no tokens of repentance, 
This Court proceeds to render sentence : 
That first the Mob a slip-knot single 
Tie around the neck of said M'Fingal, 
And in due form do tar him next. 
And feather, as the law directs; 53° 

Then through the town attendant ride him 
In cart with Constable beside him. 
And having held him up to shame. 
Bring to the pole, from whence he came." 

Forthwith the crowd proceed to ceck 
With halter'd noose M'Fingal's neck, 
While he in peril of his soul 
Stood tied half-hanging to the pole; 
Then lifting high the ponderous jar, 
Pour'd o'er his head the smoaking tar. 54° 
With less profusion once was spread 
Oil on the Jewish monarch's head, 
That down his beard and vestments ran. 
And cover'd all his outward man. 
As when (So Claudian^ sings) the Gods 
And earth-born Giants fell at odds. 
The stout Enceladus in malice 
Tore mountains up to throw at Pallas ; 
And while he held them o'er his head, 
The river, from their fountains fed, sso 
Pour'd down his back its copious tide. 
And wore its channels in his hide : 
So from the high-raised urn the torrents 
Spread down his side their various cur- 
rents ; 
His flowing wig, as next the brim. 
First met and drank the sable stream; 
Adown his visage stern and grave 
Roll'd and adhered the viscid wave; 
With arms depending as he stood, 
Each cuff capacious holds the flood; 5^ 
From nose and chin's remotest end, 
The tarry icicles descend; 
Till all o'erspread, with colors gay. 
He glitter'd to the western ray. 
Like sleet-bound trees in wintry skies. 
Or Lapland idol carved in ice. 
And now the feather-bag display'd 
Is waved in triumph o'er his head. 
And clouds him o'er with feathers missive, 
And down, upon the tar, adhesive : 57o 



^ Claudian's Gigantomachia. 



1 



JOHN TRUMBULL 



57 



Not Maia'si son, with wings for ears, 

Such plumage round his visage wears; 

Nor Milton's six-wing'd^ angel gathers 

Such superfluity of feathers. 

Now all complete appears our 'Squire, 

Like Gorgon or Chimsera dire; 

Nor more could baast on Plato's" plan 

To rank among the race of man, 

Or prove his claim to human nature. 

As a two-legg'd, unfeather'd creature. 580 

Then on the fatal cart, in state 
They raised our grand Duumvirate. 
And as at Rome* a like committee, 
Who found an owl within their city, 
With solemn rites and grave processions 
At every shrine perform'd lustrations; 
And least infection might take place 
From such grim fowl with feather'd face. 
All Rome attends him through the street 
In triumph to his country seat : 590 

With like devotion all the choir 
Paraded round our awful 'Squire; 
In front the martial music comes 
Of horns and fiddles, fifes and drums. 
With jingling sound of carriage bells, 
And trebel creak of rusted wheels. 
Behind, the croud, in lengthen'd row 
With proud procession, closed the show. 
And at fit periods every throat 
Combined in universal shout; 600 

And hail'd great Liberty in chorus, 
Or bawl'd 'confusion to the Tories.' 
Not louder storm the welkin braves 
From clamors of conflicting waves; 
Less dire in Lybian wilds the noise 
When rav'ning lions lift their voice; 
Or triumphs at town-meetings made, 
On passing votes to regulate trade. ^ 

Thus having borne them round the town, 
Last at the pole they set them down; 61° 
And to the tavern take their way 
To end in mirth the festal day. 

And now the Mob, dispersed and gone, 
Left 'Squire and Constable alone. 

^ Mercury, described by the Poets with wings 
on his head and feet. 

^ An angel wing'd — six wings he wore. 

— Milton. 

^Alluding to Plato's famous definition of 
Man, Animal bipes implume — a two-legged ani- 
mal without feathers. 

* Livy's History. 

* Such votes were frequently passed at town- 
meetings, with the view to prevent the aug- 
mentation of prices, and stop the depreciation 
of the paper money. 



The constable with rueful face 
Lean'd sad and solemn o'er a brace; 
And fast beside him, cheek by jowl, 
Stuck 'Squire M'Fingal 'gainst the pole, 
Glued by the tar t' his rear applied, 
Like barnacle on vessel's side. 620 

But though his body lack'd physician. 
His spirit was in worse condition. 
He found his fears of whips and ropes 
By many a drachm outweigh'd his hopes. 
As men in jail without mainprize 
View every thing with other eyes. 
And all goes wrong in church and state. 
Seen through perspective of the grate : 
So now M'Fingal's Second-sight 
Beheld all things in gloomier light; 630 
His visual nerve, well purged with tar. 
Saw all the coming scenes of war. 
As his prophetic soul grew stronger, 
He found he could hold in no longer. 
First from the pole, as fierce he shook, 
His wig from pitchy durance broke. 
His mouth unglued, his feathers flutter'd, 
His tarr'd skirts crack'd, and thus he 
utter'd. 

"Ah, Mr. Constable, in vain 639 

We strive 'gainst wind and tide and rain ! 
Behold my doom ! this feathery omen 
Portends what dismal times are coming. 
Now future scenes, before my eyes, 
And second-sighted forms arise. 
I hear a voice,^ that calls away, 
And cries 'The Whigs will win the day.' 
My beck'ning Genius gives command, 
And bids me fly the fatal land; 
Where changing name and constitution, 
Rebellion turns to Revolution, 650 

While Loyalty, oppress'd, in tears. 
Stands trembling for its neck and ears. 

"Go, summon all our brethren, greeting, 
To muster at our usual meeting; 
There my prophetic voice shall warn 'em 
Of all things future that concern 'em, 
And scenes disclose on which, my friend, 
Their conduct and their hves depend. 
There I '' — but first 'tis more of use, 
From this vile pole to set me loose; 660 
Then go with cautious steps and steady, 
While I steer home and make all ready. 

END OF CANTO THIRD 

1782. 

° I hear a voice, you cannot hear, 

That says, I must not stay. — Tickell's Ballad. 
' Ouos Ego — sed motos prsestat componere 
fluctus. — Virgil. 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



FROM "BRADDOCK'S FATE AND 
AN ENCITEMENT TO REVENGE" 

HIS EPITAPH 

Beneath this stone brave Braddock hes, 
Who always hated cowardice, 
But fell a savage sacrifice; 

Amidst his Indian foes. 
I charge you, heroes, of the ground. 
To guard his dark pavilion round, 
And keep off all obtruding sound, 

And cherish his repose. 

Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man, 
Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand, lo 
And to resign thy great dernand. 

And cancel thy commission : 
Altho' thou didst not much incline, 
Thy post and honors to resign; 
Now iron slumber doth confine; 

None envy's thy condition. 

Their skulking, scalping, murdering tricks 

Have so enraged old sixty-six,^ 

With legs and arms like withered sticks. 

And youthful vigor gone; 20 

That if he lives another year. 
Complete in armor he'll appear. 
And laugh at death, and scoff at fear, 

To right his country's wrong. 

Let young and old, both high and low. 
Arm well against this savage foe. 
Who all around environ us so; 

The sons of black delusion. 
New England's sons, you know their way, 
And how to cross them in their play, 30 
And drive these murdering dogs away. 

Unto their last confusion. 

One bold effort O let us make, 
And at one blow behead the snake ; 
And then these savage powers will break. 

Which long have us oppress'd. 
And this, brave soldiers, will we do, 
If Heaven and George shall say so too: 
And if we drive the matter thro' 

The land will be at rest. 4° 

* The author. 



Come, every soldier, charge your gun, 
And let your task be killing one; 
Take aim until the work is done : 

Don't throw away your fire; 
For he that fires without an aim, 
May kill his friend, and be to blame, 
And in the end come off with shame. 

When forced to retire. 

O mother land, we think we're sure . 
Sufficient is thy marine powers, 5° 

To dissipate all eastern showers : 

And if our arms be blest, 
Thy sons in North America 
Will drive these hell-born dogs away 
As far beyond the realms of day. 

As east is from the west. 

Forbear, my muse, thy barbarous song, 
Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long. 
It is too high and much too strong, 

The learned won't allow : ^^ 

Much honor should accrue to him, 
Who ne'er was at their Academ, 
Come, blot out every telesem;- 

Go home unto thy plow. 

Aug. 20, 1755. 

Tilden's Miscellaneous Poems on Divers Oc- 
casions, chiefly to animate and rouse the Sol- 
diers. — 1756. 



TO ARMS, TO ARMS! MY JOLLY 
GRENADIERS - 

To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers! 
Hark, how the drums do roll it along ! 
To horse, to horse, with valiant good 
cheer; 
We'll meet our proud foe before it is 
long. 
Let not your courage fail you; 

Be valiant, stout, and bold; 
And it will soon avail you, 
My loyal hearts of gold. 

^ A name the author gives to this sort of 

meter. — Author's Note. 

^ "This jingling provincial ballad was com- 
posed in Chester county, Pennsylvania, while 
the army was on its march in the spring or 
early summer of 1755." — Winthrop Sargent. 



58 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



59 



Huzzah, my valiant countrymen ! — again 

I say huzzah ! 
'Tis nobly done — the day's our own— 

huzzah, huzzah ! lo 

March on, march on, brave Braddock 
leads the foremost; 
The battle is begun as you may fairly 
see. 
Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be 
over; 
We'll soon gain the field from our 
proud enemy. 
A squadron now appears, my boys ; 

If that they do but stand ! 
Boys, never fear, be sure you mind 
The word of command! 
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen ! again I 

say huzzah ! 
'Tis nobly done — the day's our own — 
huzzah, huzzah ! 20 

See how, see how, they break and fly be- 
fore us ! 
See how they are scattered all over the 
plain ! 
Now, Now, — now, now, our country will 
adore us ! 
In peace, and in triumph, boys, when 
we return again ! 
Then laurels shall our glory crown 

For all our actions told : 
The hills shall echo all around 
My loyal hearts of gold. 
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen ! — again I 

say Huzzah ! 
'Tis nobly done — the day's our own — ■ 
huzzah, huzzah ! 3° 

"The History of an Expedition to Fort Du 
Quesne." — 1755. 



HOW STANDS THE GLASS 
AROUND? 

General Wolfe (?) 

How stands the glass around? 
For shame ye take no care, my boys, 

How stands the glass around? 

Let mirth and wine abound. 

The trumpets sound, 
The colours they are flying, boys. 

To fight, kill, or wound. 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fate, my boys. 

On the cold ground. 



Why, soldiers,, why. 
Should we be melancholy, boys? 

Why, soldiers, why? 

Whose business 'tis to die ! 

What, sighing? fie! 
Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys! 

'Tis he, you, or I ! 

Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
We're always bound to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly ! 20 

'Tis but in vain, — 
I mean not to upbraid you, boys, — 

'Tis but in vain, 

For soldiers to complain : 

Should next campaign 
Send us to him who made us, boys, 

We're free from pain ! 

But if we remain, 
A bottle and a kind landlady 

Cure all again. 3° 

1759. 
THE DEATH OF WOLFE 
(Anon) 

Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human 

praise, 
The breathing marble or the muses' lays. 
Art is but vain — the force of language 

weak. 
To paint thy virtues, or thy actions 

speak. 
Had I Duche's or Godfrey's magic skill. 
Each line to raise, and animate at will — 
To rouse each passion dormant in the 

soul. 
Point out its object, or its rage control — 
Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance 

should we find 
Of those great virtues that adorn'd thy 

mind. 10 

Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then 

appear. 
Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear — 
While France, astonish' d, trembled at thy 

sight, 
And placed her safety in ignoble flight. 
Thy last great scene should melt each 

Briton's heart. 
And rage and grief alternately impart. 
With foes surrounded, midst the shades 

of death, 
These were the words that closed the 

warrior's breath — 
"My eyesight fails ! — but does the foe re- 
treat ? 
If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!" 20 



60 



AMERICAN POETRY 



A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke, 
Cried, "Sir, they fly ! — their ranks entirely 

broke : 
Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughter'd 

heaps advance, 
And deal due vengeance on the sons of 

France." 
The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul, 
And from his lips these dying accents 

stole : — 
"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his 

•Wci.y, 
Guarded by angels to celestial day. 
An awfful band ! — Britannia's mighty 

dead. 
Receives to glory his immortal shade. 30 
Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike 

chief — 
Halket and Howe, late objects of our 

grief. 
With joyful song conduct their welcome 

guest 
To the bright mansions of eternal rest — 
For those prepared who merit just ap- 
plause 
By bravely dying in their country's cause. 

Pennsylvania Gazette, Nov. 8, 1759. 

SURE NEVER WAS PICTURE 
DRAWN MORE TO THE LIFE 

Sure never was picture drawn more to 

the life 
Or affectionate husband more fond of his 

wife, 
Than America copies and loves Britain's 

sons, 
Who, conscious of Freedom, are bold as 
great guns. 
'Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're 

sons of those Men 
Who always are ready, steady, boys, 

steady. 
To fight for their freedom again and 
again." 

Tho' we feast and grow fat on America's 
soil. 

Yet we own ourselves subjects of Brit- 
ain's fair isle ; 

And who's so absurd to deny us the 
name? ^o 

Since true British blood flows in every 
vein. 
"Hearts of Oak, etc." 

Then cheer up, my lads, to your country 
be firm, 



Like kings of the ocean, we'll weather 

each storm; 
Integrity calls out, fair liberty, see, 
Waves her Flag o'er our heads and her 

words are be free. 
"Hearts of Oak, etc." 

To King George, as true subjects, we 

loyal bow down. 
But hope we may call Magna Charta our 

own. 
Let the rest of the world slavish worship 

decree, • 20 

Great Britain has ordered her sons to be 

free. 
"Hearts of Oak, etc." 

Poor Esau his birth-right gave up for a 

bribe, 
Americans scorn th' mean soul-selling 

tribe ; 
Beyond life our freedom we chuse to 

possess, 
Which, thro' life we'll defend, and abjure 
a broad S.* 
"Hearts of Oak are we still, and we're 

sons of those men, 
Who fear not the ocean, brave roarings 

of cannon, 
To stop all oppression, again and 
again." 

On our brow while we laurel-crown'd 

Liberty wear, 30 

What Englishmen ought we Americans 

dare; 
Though tempests and terrors around us 

we see. 
Bribes nor fears can prevail o'er the hearts 
that are free. 
"Hearts of Oak are we still, for we're 

sons of those men. 
Who always are ready, steady, boys, 

steady, 
To fight for their freedom again and 
again." 

With Loyalty, Liberty let us entwine. 
Our blood shall for both flow as free as 

our wine; 
Let us set an example, what all men 

should be, 
And a Toast give the World, "Here's to 

those dare be free." 40 

"Hearts of Oak, etc." 

Virginia Gazette, May 2, 1766. 

^ A gold sovereign. 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



61 



COME JOIN HAND IN HAND, 
BRAVE AMERICANS ALL 

To the tune of "Hearts of Oak" 

John Dickinson (?) 

Come, join hand in hand, brave Ameri- 
cans all. 
And rouse your bold hearts at fair Lib- 
erty's call; 
No tyrannous act shall suppress your just 

claim. 
Or stain with dishonour America's name. 
In freedom we're born, and in freedom 
we'll live ! 
Our purses are ready-^ 
Steady, friends, steady; 
Not as slaves, but as freemen our 
money we'll give. 

Our worthy forefathers (let's give them 

a cheer) 
To climates unknown did courageously 

steer; lo 

Through oceans to deserts for freedom 

they came, 
And, dying, bequeath'd us their freedom 

and fame. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

Their generous bosoms all dangers de- 
spised. 

So highly, so wisely their birthrights 
they prized ; 

We'll keep what they gave, we will piously 
keep, 

Noi frustrate their toils on the land and 
the deep. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

The tree their own hands had to Liberty 

rear'd. 
They lived to behold growing strong and 

revered, 20 

With transport then cried, "Now our 

wishes we gain, 
For our children shall gather the fruits 

of our pain." 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

How sweet are the labours that freemen 
endure. 

That they shall enjoy all the profit, se- 
cure — 

No more such sweet labours Americans 
know 

If Britons shall reap what Americans sow. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 



Swarms of placemen and pensioners^ soon 
will appear, 

Like locusts deforming the charms of the 
year ; 3° 

Suns vainly will rise, showers vainly de- 
scend. 

If we are to drudge, for what others 
shall spend. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

Then join hand in hand, brave Ameri- 
cans all. 

By uniting, we stand, by dividing, we fall ; 

In so righteous a cause let us hope to 
succeed 

For Heaven approves of each generous 
deed. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

All ages shall speak with amaze and ap- 
plause 

Of the courage we'll show in support of 
our laws; 40 

To die we can bear, but to serve we dis- 
dain, 

For shame is to freemen more dreadful 
than pain. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

This bumper I crown for our sovereign's 

health, 
And this for Britannia's glory and wealth ; 
That wealth and that glory immortal may 

be, 
If she is but just, and if we are but free. 
In freedom we're born, etc. 

Pennsylvania Chronicle, July 4, 1768. 



A TORY PARODY OF THE ABOVE 

Come, shake your dull noddles, ye pump- 
kins and bawl, 
And own that you're mad at fair Lib- 
erty's call. 
No scandalous conduct can add to your 

shame, 
Condemn'd to dishonor, inherit the fame ! 
In folly you're born, and in folly you'll 
live. 
To madness still ready, 
And stupidly steady. 
Not as men but as monkies, the tokens 
you give. 

^ The ministry have already begun to give 
away in pensions the money they lately took out 
of our pockets without our consent. 

— {Author's Note.) 



62 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Your grandsire, old Satan — now give him 

a cheer ! — 
Would act like 3'ourselves, and as wildly 

would steer. 'o 

So great an example in prospect still keep ; 
Whilst you are alive, old Belzee may 

sleep. 
In folly, etc. 

Such villains, such rascals, all dangers de- 
spise, 

And stick not at mobbing, when mischief's 
the prize : 

They burst through all barriers, and 
piously keep. 

Such chattels and goods the vile rascals 
can sweep. 
In folly, etc. 

The tree which the wisdom of justice hath 

rear'd. 
Should be stout for their use, and by no 

means be spared, 20 

When fuddled with rum, the mad sots to 

restrain ; 
Sure Tyburn will sober the wretches again. 
In folly, etc. 

Your brats and your hunters by no means 

forget, 
But feather your nests, for they're bare 

enough yet; 
From the insolent rich sure the poor 

knave may steal, 
Who ne'er in his life knew the scent of 

a meal. 
In folly, etc. 

When in your own cellars you've quaffed 

a regale. 
Then drive, tug and stink the next house 

to assail. 30 

For short is your harvest, nor long shall 

you know 
The pleasure of reaping what other men 

sow. 
In folly, etc. 

Then plunder, my lads, for when red 

coats appear. 
You'll melt like the locusts when winter 

is near. 
Gold vainly will glow; silver vainly will 

shine; 
But faith you must skulk, you no more 

shall purloin. 
In folly, etc. 



Then nod your poor numbskulls, ye pump- 
kins, and bawl ! 
» The De'il take such rascals, fools, whore- 
sons and all. 4° 
Your cursed old trade of purloining must 

cease, 
The curse and the dread of all order and 
peace. 
In folly, etc. 

All ages shall speak with contempt and 

amaze. 
Of the vilest Banditti that swarm'd in 

those days ; 
In defiance of halters, of whips, and of 

chains. 
The rogues would run riot, damn'd fools 

for their pains. 
In folly, etc. 

Gulp down your last dram, for the gal- 
lows now groans, 

And order depress'd her lost empire be- 
moans ; 50 

While we quite transported and happy 
shall be. 

From snobs, knaves and villains, pro- 
tected and free. 
In folly, etc. 

Boston Gazette, Sept. 26, 1768. 

THE PARODY PARODIZED 
OR The Massachusetts Song of Liberty 

Come, swallow your bumpers, ye Tories, 

and roar, 
That the sons of fair freedom are ham- 

per'd once more; 
But know that no cut-throat our spirits 

can tame, 
Nor a host of oppressors shall smother 

the flame. 

Chorus 

In freedom we're born, and like sons of 
the brave. 

Will never surrender. 

But swear to defend her. 
And scorn to survive if unable to save. 

Our grandsires, blest heroes! we'll give 
them a tear, 

Nor sully their honors by stooping to 
fear ; 'o 

Thro' deaths and thro' dangers their 
trophies they won. 

We dare be their rivals, nor will be out- 
done. 

Chorus. 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



63 



Let tyrants and minions presume to de- 
spise, 

Encroach on our rights and make free- 
dom their prize; 

The fruits of their rapine they never 
shall keep — 

Tho' vengeance may nod, yet how short 
is her sleep. 

Chorus. 

The tree which proud Haman for Mor- 

decai rear'd, 
Stands recorded, that virtue endanger'd is 

spar'd ; 
That rogues, whom no bonds and no laws 

can restrain, 
Must be stript of their honors and 

humbled again. 20 

Chorus. 

Our wives and our babes still protected, 

shall know 
Those who dare to be free shall for ever 

be so; 
On these arms and these hearts they may 

safely rely. 
For in freedom we'll live, or like heroes 

we'll die. 

Chorus. 

Ye insolent tyrants, who wish to enthrall. 

Ye minions ! ye placemen ! pimps, pen- 
sioners, all ! 

How short is your triumph, how feeble 
your trust ! 

Your honors must wither and nod to the 
dust. 

Chorus. 

When opprest and reproach'd, our king 
we implore, 

Still firmly persuaded our rights he'll re- 
store ; 30 

When our hearts beat to arms to defend 
a just right. 

Our monarch rules there, and forbids us 
to fight. 

Chorus. 

Not the glitter of arms, nor the dread of 

a fray. 
Could make us submit to their chains for 

a day; 
Withheld by affection, on Britons we call, 
Prevent the fierce conflict which threatens 

your fall. 

Chorus. 



All ages shall speak vvith amaze and ap- 
plause. 

Of the prudence we show in support of 
our cause. 

Assur'd of our safety a Brunswick still 
reigns. 

Whose free, loyal subjects are strangers 
to chains. 40 

Chorus. 

Then join hand in hand, brave Americans 

all. 
To be free is to live ; to be slaves is to 

fall; 
Has the land such a dastard as scorns 

not a lord? 
Who dreads not a fetter much more than 

a sword? 

Chorus. 

Handbill, Boston, early October 1768. 



THE LIBERTY POLE SATIRIZED 

(Anon.) 

To the tune of "Derry Down." 

Come, listen, good neighbors of every 

degree. 
Whose hearts, like your purses, are open 

and free. 
Let this pole a monument ever remain, 
Of the folly and arts of the time-serving 

train. 

Derry down, etc. 

Its bottom, so artfully fix'd under ground. 

Resembles their scheming, so low and 
profound; 

The dark underminings, and base dirty 
ends. 

On which the success of the faction de- 
pends. 

Derry down, etc. 'o 

The vane, mark'd with freedom, may put 

us in mind. 
As it varies, and flutters, and turns, with 

the wind. 
That no faith can be plac'd in the words 

of our foes. 
Who change as the wind of their interest 

blows. 

Derry down, etc. 

The iron clasp'd around it, so firm and 
so neat. 

Resembles too closely their fraud and de- 
ceit, 



64 



AMERICAN POETRY 



If the out'side's but guarded, they care not 

a pin, 
How rotten and hollow the heart is within. 
Derry down, etc. 20 

Then away, ye pretenders to freedom, 
away. 

Who strive to cajole us in hopes to be- 
tray; 

Leave the pole for the stroke of the light- 
ening to sever. 

And, huzzah for King George and our 
country for ever ! 

Derry down, etc. 

From "The Procession with the Standard 
of a Faction. A Cantata." March 5, 1770. 



A SONG 

Joseph Stansbury 

Ye Sons of St. George, here assembled 

today. 
So honest and hearty, so chearful and gay, 
Come join in the chorus, and loyally sing 
In praise of your patron, your country 

and king. 

Tho' plac'd at a distance from Britain's 
bold shore. 

From thence either we or our fathers 
came o'er : 

And in will, word and deed, we are En- 
glishmen all; 

Still true to her cause and awake to her 
call. 

Let Cressy, Poictiers, and let Agincourt 

show 
How our ancestors acted some ages ago : 'o 
While Minden's red field and Quebec shall 

proclaim 
That their sons are unchanged or in 

nature or name. 

Should the proud Spanish dons but ap- 
pear on the main. 

The island they pilfered, by force to main- 
tain, 

The brave sons of thunder our wrongs 
will redress, , 

And teach them again what they learn'd 
of Queen Bess. 

Tho' the proud Roman eagle to Britain 

was borne. 
Both talons and feathers got plaguily 

torn; 



And Csesar himself, both with foot and 

with horse. 

Was glad to sneak off with — "It's well 

'twas no worse." 20 

Tho' party contentions awhile may run 
high. 

When danger advances they'll vanish and 
die: 

While all with one heart, hand and spirit 
unite, 

Like Englishmen think and like English- 
men fight. 

Then here's to our king, and oh, long 

may he reign — 
The lord of those men who are lords of 

the main ! 
While all the contention among us shall 

be 
To make him as happy as we are made 

free. 

And here's to the daughters of Britain's 

fair isle — 
May freedom and they ever crown with 

a smile 3° 

The Sons of St. George, our good knight 

so profound — 
The Sons of St. George, men all the 

world round. 

Sung at the second anniversary meeting 
of the Sons of St. George in New York, 
April 23, 1771. 



THE BOSTON TEA PARTY 
(^Anon.) 

As near beauteous Boston lying, 
On the gently swelling flood. 

Without jack or pendant flying. 
Three ill fated tea-ships rode; 

Just as glorious Sol was setting, 
On the wharf a numerous crew, 

Sons of freedom fear forgetting, 
Suddenly appeared in view. 

Armed with hammers, axe and chisels, 
Weapons new for warlike deed, '' 

Toward the herbage- freighted vessels 
They approached with dreadful speed. 

O'er their heads aloft in mid-sky. 
Three bright angel forms were seen; 

This was Hampden, that was Sidney, 
With fair Liberty between. 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



65 



"Soon," they cried, "your foes you'll 
banish, 

Soon the triumph shall be won; 
Scarce shall setting Phoebus vanish 

Ere the deathless deed be done." 20 

Quick as thought the ships were boarded. 
Hatches burst and chests displayed; 

Axes, hammers, help afforded; 
What a glorious crash they made. 

Squash into the deep descended 
Cursed weed of China's coast; 

Thus at once our fears were ended ; 
British rights shall ne'er be lost. 

Captains ! once more hoist your streamers, 
Spread your sails and plough the wave; 

Tell your masters they were dreamers 31 
When they thought to cheat the brave. 

Pennsylvania Packet, 1773. 



To Britain fly, where gold enslaves 

And venal men their birth-right sell; 
Tell North and his brib'd clan of knaves 

Their bloody acts were made in hell. 
In Henry's reign those acts began. 

Which sacred rules of justice broke; 1° 
North now pursues the hellish plan. 

To fix on us his slavish yoke. 
But we oppose, and will be free, 

This great food cause we will defend ; 
Nor bribe, nor Gage, nor North's decree, 

Shall make us "at his feet to bend." 
From Anglia's ancient sons we came. 

Those heroes who for freedom fought; 
In Freedom's cause we'll match their 
fame. 

By their example greatly taught. 20 

Our king we love, but North we hate. 

Nor will to him submission own ; 
If death's our doom, we'll brave our fate. 

But pay allegiance to the throne. 

Pennsylvania Journal, Sept. 14, 1774. 



A LADY'S ADIEU TO HER 
TEA-TABLE 

Farewell the tea-board, with its gaudy 

equipage 
Of cups and saucers, cream-buckets, 

sugar-tongs, 
The pretty tea-chest also, lately stor'd 
With Hyson, Congou, and best double 

fine. 
Full many a joyous moment have I sat 

by ye. 
Hearing the girls tattle, the old maids talk 

scandal, 
And the spruce coxcomb laugh at — may 

be — nothing. 
No more shall I dish out the once lov'd 

liquor. 
Though now detestable, 
Because I am taught (and I believe it 

true) 10 

Its use will fasten slavish chains upon 

my country. 
And Liberty's the goddess I would choose 
To reign triumphant in America. 

1774. 

VIRGINIA BANISHING TEA 
By a Lady 

Begone, pernicious baneful tea, 
With all Pandora's ills possess'd; 

Hyson, no more beguiled by thee. 
My noble sons shall be oppress'd. 



WHEN GOOD QUEEN ELIZiABETH 
GOVERNED THE REALM 

Joseph Stanseury 

When good Queen Elizabeth govern'd the 

realm. 
And Burleigh's sage counsels directed the 

helm. 
In vain Spain and France our conquests 

oppos'd, — 
For valor conducted what wisdom pro- 
pos'd. 
Beef and beer was their food; 
Love and truth armed their band; 
Their courage was ready — 
Steady, boys, steady — 
To fight and to conquer by sea and by 
land. 

But since tea and coffee, so much to our 

grief, 10 

Have taken the place of strong beer and 

roast beef, 
Our laurels have wither'd, our trophies 

been torn. 
And the lions of England French tri- 
umphs adorn. 
Tea and slops are their food — 
Which unnerve every hand; 
Their courage unsteady 
And not always ready — 
They often are conquered by sea and by 
land. 



66 



AMERICAN POETRY 



St. George views with transport our gen- 
erous flame : — 
"My sons, rise to glory, and rival my 
fame; 20 

Ancient manners again in my sons I be- 
hold, 
And this age must eclipse all the ages 
of gold." 
Beef and beer are our food; 
Love and truth arm our band; 
Our courage is steady, 
And always is ready 
To fight and to conquer by sea and by 
land. 

While thus we regale, as our fathers of 

old,— 
Our manners as simple, our courage as 

bold- 
May vigor and prudence our freedom 
secure, 3° 

Long as rivers, or oceans, or stars shall 
endure. 
Beef and beer are our food; 
Love and truth arm our band; 
Our courage is steady, 
And always is ready 
To fight and to conquer by sea and by 
land. 

1774? 5? 

LIBERTY TREE 

Thomas Paine 

In a chariot of light from the regions of 
day. 
The Goddess of Liberty came; 
Ten thousand celestials directed the way, 

And hither conducted the dame. 
A fair budding branch from the gardens 
above, 
Where millions with millions agree, 
She brought in her hand as a pledge of 
her love, 
And the plant she named Liberty Tree. 

The celestial exotic struck deep in the 
ground, 
Like a native it flourished and bore ; 1° 
The fame of its fruit drew the nations 
around. 
To seek out this peaceable shore. 
Unmindful of names or distinctions they 
came, 
For freemen like brothers agree ; 
With one spirit endued, they one friend- 
ship pursued, 
And their temple was Liberty Tree. 



Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs 
of old. 
Their bread in contentment they ate 
Unvexed with the troubles of silver and 
gold, 
The cares of the grand and the great. 20 
With timber and tar they Old England 
supplied, 
And supported her power on the sea; 
Her battles they fought, without getting 
a groat. 
For the honor of Liberty Tree. 

But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most 
profane. 
How all the tyrannical powers. 
Kings, Commons and Lords, are uniting 
amain. 
To cut down this guardian of ours; 
From the east to the west blow the trum- 
pet to arms, 
Through the land let the sound of it 
flee, 30 

Let the far and the near, all unite with 
a cheer. 
In defence of our Liberty Tree. 

Pennsylvania Packet, 1775. 



A SONG 

To the tune of "The Echoing Horn" 

Hark ! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, pa- 
triots, awake ! 
To arms, my brave boys, and away : 
'Tis Honour, 'tis Virtue, 'tis Liberty calls, 

And upbraids the too tedious delay. 
What pleasure we find in pursuing our 
foes. 
Thro' blood and thro' carnage we'll fly; 
Then follow, we'll soon overtake them, 
huzza ! 
The tyrants are seized on,' they die. 

Triumphant returning with Freedom se- 
cur'd. 
Like men, we'll be joyful and gay — 1° 
With our wives and our friends, we'll 
sport, love and drink, 
And lose the fatigues of the day. 
'Tis freedom alone gives a relish to mirth. 

But oppression all happiness sours ; 
It will smooth life's dull passage, 'twill 
slope the descent. 
And strew the way over with flowers. 

Pennsylvania Journal, May 31, 1775. 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



67 



THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE 

The breezes went steadily through the 
tall pines, 
A-saying "oh ! hu-sh !" a-saying "oh ! 
hu-sh !" 
As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, 
For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the 
bush. 

"Keep still!" said the thrush as she 
nestled her young 
In a nest by the road; in a nest by the 
road, 
"For the tyrants are near, and with them 
appear 
What bodes us no good, what bodes us 
no good." 

The brave captain heard it, and thought 
of his home 
In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the 
brook. . 1° 

With mother and sister and memories 
dear. 
He so gayly forsook; he so gayly for- 
sook. 

Cooling shades of the night were coming 
apace, 
The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had 
beat. 
The noble one sprang from his dark 
lurking-place, 
To make his retreat; to make his re- 
treat. 

He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves. 

As he passed through the wood; as he 

passed through the wood ; 

And silently gained his rude launch on 

the shore, 

As she played with the flood; as she 

played with the flood. 20 

The guards of the camp, on that dark, 
dreary night. 
Had a murderous will; had a murder- 
ous will. 
They took him and bore him afar from 
the shore, 
To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the 
hill. 

\o mother was there, nor a friend who 

could cheer, 
In that little stone cell; in that littk 
. stone cell. 



But he trusted in love, from his Father 
above. 
In his heart, all was well; in his heart, 
all was well. 

An ominous owl, with his solemn bass 
voice. 
Sat moaning hard by ; sat moaning hard 
by: _ 30 

"The Tyrant's proud minions most gladly 
rejoice. 
For he must soon die; for he must 
soon die." 

The brave fellow told them, nothing re- 
strained,^- 
The cruel general ! the cruel general ! 
His errand from camp, of the ends to be 
gained. 
And said that was all; and said that 
was all. 

They took him and bound him and bore 
him away, 
Down the hill's grassy side; down the 
hill's grassy side. 
'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal 
array. 
His cause did deride; his cause did de- 
ride. 40 

Five minutes were given, short moments, 
no more. 
For him to repent; for him to repent. 
He prayed for his mother, he asked not 
another. 
To Heaven he went; to Heaven he 
went. 

The faith of a martyr the tragedy 
showed. 
As he trod the' last stage; as he trod 
the last stage. 
And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's 
blood. 
As his words do presage, as his words 
do presage. 

"Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's 
gloomy foe, 
Go frighten the slave, go frighten the 
slave ; so 

Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they 
owe. 
No fears for the brave; no fears for 
the brave." 

1776. 



68 



AMERICAN POETRY 



INDEPENDENCE 

Come all you brave soldiers, both valiant 
and free. 
It's for Independence we all now agree, 
Let us gird on our swords, and prepare 
to defend 
Our liberty, property, ourselves and 
our friends. 

In a cause that's so righteous, come let 
us agree. 
And from hostile invaders set America 
free; 
The cause is so glorious we need not to 
fear 
But from merciless tyrants we'll set 
ourselves clear. 



And now, brave Americans, since it is so, 

That we are independent we'll have 

them to know, 3° 

That united we are, and united we'll be, 

And from all British tyrants we'll try 

to keep free. 

May heaven smile on us in all our en- 
deavors. 
Safe guard our sea-ports, our towns 
and our rivers; 
Keep us from invaders, by land and by 
sea. 
And from all who'd deprive us of our 
liberty. 

Freeman's Journal, or New Hampshire 
Gazette, Aug. 17, 1776. 



Heaven's blessing attending us, no tyrant 

shall say 

That Americans e'er to such monsters 

gave way; lo 

But, fighting, we'll die in America's cause, 

Before we'll submit to tyrannical laws. 

George the Third, of Great Britain, no 
more shall he reign. 
With unlimited sway o'er these free 
states again; 
Lord North, nor old Bute, nor none of 
their clan. 
Shall ever be honor'd by an American. 

May heaven's blessing descend on our 
United States, 
And grant that the union may never 
abate ; 
May love, peace and harmony ever be 
found 
For to go hand in hand America round. 



Upon our grand Congress, may heaven 
bestow 
Both wisdom and skill our good to 
pursue; 
On heaven alone dependent we'll be. 
But from all earthly tyrants we mean 
to be free. 

Unto our brave generals may heaven give 
skill. 
Our armies to guide and the sword for 
to wield; 
May their hands taught to war and their 
fingers to fight. 
Be able to put British armies to flight. 



A BALLAD 
To the tune of "Smile Britannia" 

Rise, rise, bright genius rise. 

Conduct thy sons to war; 
Thy spear pois'd to the skies, 

Whirl, whirl thy rapid car; 
Fire each firm breast with noble zeal, 
To conquer for the common weal. 

P"or years the iron rod 

Has hover'd o'er our heads, 
Submit to George's nod. 

Whose power all Europe dreads; t-° 
The slavish minion cries. 
But Freedom's sons all fears despise. 

All means for peace we've tried, 
But found those measures vain; 

North's ministerial pride 
Thought fear made us complain. 

But in the end, convinc'd he'll see, 

We dread not death, but slavery. 

Tho' fatal lust of pow'r 

Has steel'd the tyrants soul; 20 

Though in an ill-tim'd hour 

He bids his thunders roll, 
Great Liberty, inspired by thee, 
We fly to death or victory. 

Great Nature's law inspires, 

And free-born souls unite, 
While common interest fires 

Us to defend our right 
Against corruption's boundless claim, 
And firmly fix great Freedom's reign. 3° 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



69 



They foreign troops employ, 

For mercenary hire ; 
Their weakness we enjoy, 

Each pulse new ardors fire, 
Convinc'd the wretch who fights for pay. 
Will never bear the palm away. 

They boast their power by sea, 

The ruin of our trade; 
Our navy soon they'll see. 

Wide o'er the ocean spread ; 4° 

Britain not long shall boast her reign 
O'er the wide empire of the main. 

Throughout the universe 

Our commerce we'll extend. 
Each power on the reverse 

Shall seek to be our friend, 
Whilst our sons crown'd with wealth im- 
mense. 
Sing Washington and Common Sense. 

Freeman's Journal, or New Hampshire 
Gazette, Oct. 22, 1776. 



SONG 

JONATHAN OdELL 

How sweet is the season, the sky how 

serene ; 
On Delaware's banks how delightful the 

scene ; 
The prince of the rivers, his waves all 

asleep. 
In silence majestic glides on to the deep. 

Away from the noise of the fife and the 

drum, 
And all the rude din of Bellona we come, 
And a plentiful store of good humor we 

bring 
To season our feast in the shade of Cold 

Spring. 

A truce then to all whig and tory debate ; 
True lovers of freeuom, contention we 

hate : lo 

For the demon of discord in vain tries his 

art 
To possess or inflame a true Protestant^ 

heart. 

True Protestant friends to fair liberty's 

cause. 
To decorum, good order, religion and 

laws, 

* "Protestant was a term adopted by a circle 
of Loyalists." (Author's note.) 



From avarice, jealousy, perfidy, free: 
We wish all the world were as happy as 
we. 

We have wants, we confess, but are free 

from the care 
Of those that abound, yet have nothing to 

spare : 
Serene as the sky, as the river serene. 
We are happy to want envy, malice and 

spleen. 2° 

While thousands around us, misled by a 
few. 

The phantoms of pride and ambition pur- 
sue. 

With pity their fatal delusion we see; 

And wish all the world were as happy as 
we. 

For a fishing party near Burlington on 
the Delaware in 1776. 



THE CONGRESS 

Ye Tories all rejoice and sing 
Success to George our gracious king 
The faithful subjects tribute bring 
And execrate the Congress. 

These hardy knaves and stupid fools. 
Some apish and pragmatic mules, 
Some servile acquiescing tools, — 
These, these compose the Congress! 

When Jove resolved to send a curse, 
And all the woes of life rehearse, ^° 

Not plague, not famine, but much worse- 
He cursed us with a Congress. 

Then peace forsook this hapless shore. 
Then cannons blazed with horrid roar; 
We hear of blood, death, wounds, and 
gore. 
The ofifsprmg of the Congress. 

Imperial Rome from scoundrels rose. 
Her grandeur's hailed in verse and prose; 
Venice the dregs of sea compose; 

So sprung the mighty Congress. 20 

When insects vile emerge to light. 
They take their short inglorious flight. 
Then sink again to native night, 
An emblem of the Congress. 

With freemen's rights they wanton play; 
At their command, we fast and pray; 
With worthless paper they us pay, 
A fine device of Congress. 



70 



AMERICAN POETRY 



With poverty and dire distress, 
V/itli standing armies us oppress, 3° 

Whole troops to Pluto swiftly press, 
As victims to the Congress. 

Time serving priests to zealots preach. 
Who king and parliament impeach; 
Seditious lessons to us teach 
At the command of Congress. 

Good Lord! disperse this venal tribe; 
Their doctrine let no fools imbibe — 
Let Balaam no more asses ride, 

Nor burdens bear to Congress. 4° 

With puffs, and flams, and gasconade, 
With stupid jargon they bravade; 
We transports take — Quebec invade — 
With laurels crown the Congress. 

Our mushroom champions they dragoon. 
We cry out hero, not poltroon, 
The next campaign we'll storm the moon. 
And there proclaim the Congress. 

In shades below, Montgomery's ghost 
Is welcomed to the Stygian coast; 5° 

Congenial traitors see and boast 
Th' unhappy days of Congress. 

Old Catiline, and Cromwell too. 
Jack Cade, and his seditious crew, 
Hail brother-rebel at first view. 
And hope to meet the Congress. 

The world's amazed to see the pest 
The tranquil land with wars infest; 
Britannia puts them to the test, 
And tries the strength of Congress. 6° 

O goddess, hear our hearty prayers ; 
Confound the villains by the ears; 
Disperse the plebeians — try the peers, 
And execute the Congress. 

See, see, our hope begins to dawn ! 
Bold Carleton scours the Northern lawn, 
The sons of faction sigh forlorn. 
Dejected is the Congress. 

Clinton, Burgoyne and gallant Howe, 
Will soon reward our conduct true, 7° 
And to each traitor give his due, 
Perdition waits the Congress. 

See noble Dunmore keeps his post; 
Maraudes and ravages the coast; 
Despises Lee and all his host, 
That hair brain tool of Congress, 



There's Washington and all his men — 
Where Howe had one, the goose had ten — 
March'd up the hill, and down again 
And sent returns to Congress. 8o 

Prepare, prepare, my friends, prepare 
For scenes of blood, the field of war; 
To royal standard we'll repair, 
And curse the haughty Congress. 

Huzza ! Huzza ! we thrice huzza ! 
Return peace, harmony, and law ! 
Restore such times as once we saw, 
And bid adieu to Congress. 

Towne's Evening Post, No. 435, 1776. 



BOLD HAWTHORNE 1 

The twenty-second of August, 

Before the close of day. 
All hands on board of our privateer, 

We got her under weigh; 
We kept the Eastern shore along, 

For forty leagues or more. 
Then our departure took for sea, 

From the isle of Mauhegan shore. 

Bold Hawthorne was commander, 

A man of real worth, i° 

Old England's cruel tyranny 

Induced him to go forth; 
She, with relentless fury, 

Was plundering all our coast. 
And thought, because her strength was 
great, 

Our glorious cause was lost. 

Yet boast not, haughty Britons, 

Of power and dignity. 
By land thy conquering armies, 

Thy matchless strength at sea; 20 

Since taught by numerous instances 

Americans can fight, 
With valor can equip their stand. 

Your armies put to flight. 

Now farewell to fair America, 

Farewell our friends and wives ; 
We trust in Heaven's peculiar care. 

For to protect their lives; 
To prosper our intended cruise 

Upon the raging main, 3° 

And to preserve our dearest-friends 

Till we return again. 

^ The Surgeon's record of the Cruise of the 
"Fair American," Captain Daniel Hawthorne, 
Commander. — 1777, 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



n 



The wind it being leading, 

It bore us on our way, 
As far unto the southward 

As the Gulf of Florida; 
Where we fell in with a British ship. 

Bound homeward from the main; 
We gave her two bow-chasers, 

And she returned the same. 4° 

We hauled up our courses, 

And so prepared for fight; 
The contest held four glasses. 

Until the dusk of night; 
Then having sprung our main-mast. 

And had so large a sea, 
We dropped astern and left our chase 

Till the returning day. 

Next morn we fished our main-mast. 

The ship still being nigh, 5° 

All hands made for engaging 

Our chance once more to try; 
But wind and sea being boisterous 

Our cannon would not bear. 
We thought it quite imprudent 

And so we left her there. 

We cruised to the eastward. 

Near the coast of Portugal, 
In longitude of twenty-seven 

We saw a lofty sail; _ ^ 

We gave her chase, and soon perceived 

She was a British snow 
Standing for fair America, 

With troops for General Howe. 

Our captain did inspect her 

With glasses, and he said, 
"My boys, she means to fight us, 

But be you not afraid ; 
All hands repair to quarters. 

See everything is clear, 7o 

We'll give a broadside, my boys, 

As soon as she comes near." 

She was prepared with nettings. 

And her men were well secured, 
And bore directly for us, 

And put us close on board; 
When the cannon roared like thunder, 

And the muskets fired amain. 
But soon we were along-side 

And grappled to her chain. 80 

And now the scene it altered. 

The cannon ceased to roar. 
We fought with swords and boarding 
pikes 

One gladd or something more, 



Till British pride and glory 
No longer dared to stay. 

But cut the Yankee grapplings, 
And quickly bore away. 

Our case was not so desparate 

As plainly might appear; 
Yet sudden death did enter 

On board our privateer. 
Mahoney, Crew, and Clemmons, 

The valiant and the brave. 
Fell glorious in the contest. 

And met a watery grave. 

Ten other men were wounded 

Among our warlike crew. 
With them our noble captain, 

To whom all praise is due; 
To him and all our officers 

Let's give a hearty cheer; 
Success to fair America 

And our good privateer. 



90 



Cir. 1777. 



A BIRTHDAY SONG 
Jonathan Odell 

Composed at New York, in honour of the an- 
niversary of the King's birthday, June 4th, 1777: 
and printed in the Gentleman's Magasvne for 
that year. 

Time was when America hallow'd the 
morn 

On which the lov'd monarch of Britain 
was born 

Hallow'd the day, and joyfully chanted 
God save the King! 

Then flourish'd the blessings of freedom 
and peace 

And plenty flow'd in with a yearly in- 
crease. 

Proud of our lot we chanted merrily 
Glory and joy crown the King! 

With envy beheld by the nations around. 
We rapidly grew, nor was anything found 
Able to check our growth while we chanted 
God save the King ! " 

O blest beyond measure, had honour and 

truth 
Still nursed in our hearts what they 

planted in youth ! 
Loyalty still had chanted merrily 

Glory and joy crown the King! 

But see! how rebellion has lifted her 

head! 
How honour and truth are with loyalty 

fled! 



72 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Few are there now who join us in chant- 
ing 

God save the King! -o 

And see ! how deluded the multitude fly 
To arm in a cause that is built on a lye ! 
Yet are we proud to chant thus merrily 

Glory and joy crown the King! 

Though faction by falsehood awhile may 

prevail ! 
And loyalty suffers a captive in jail; 
Britain is rouz'd, rebellion is falling: 

God save the King! 
The captive shall soon be releas'd from 

his chain : 
And conquest restore us to Britain again, 
Ever to join in chanting merrily, 3i 

Glory and joy crown the King! 

June 4, 1777. 



But ah, the cruel fates of war! 

This boasted son of Britain, 3o 

When mounting his triumphal car, 

With sudden fear was smitten. 

To sons of Freedom gathered round. 
His hostile bands confounded, 

And when they'd fain have turned their 
back 
They found themselves surrounded ! 

In vain they fought, in vain they fled; 

Their chief, humane and tender. 
To save the rest soon thought it best 

His forces to surrender. 40 

Brave St. Clair, when he first retired, 
Knew what the fates portended; 

And Arnold and heroic Gates 
His conduct have defended. 



THE FATE OF JOHN BURGOYNE 

When Jack the king's commander 

Was going to his duty, 
Through all the crowd he smiled and 
bowed 

To every blooming beauty. 

The city rung with feats he'd done 

In Portugal and Flanders, 
And all the town thought he'd be crowned 

The first of Alexanders. 

To Hampton Court he first repairs 

To kiss great George's hand, sirs; 'o 

Then to harangue on state affairs 
Before he left the land, sirs. 

The "Lower House" sate mute as mouse 

To hear his grand oration; 
And "all the peers," with loudest cheers, 

Proclaimed him to the nation. 

Then off he went to Canada, 

Next to Ticonderoga, 
And quitting those away he goes 

Straightway to Saratoga. 20 

With great parade his march he made 
To gain his wished- for station, 

While far and wide his minions hied 
To spread his "Proclamation." 

To such as stayed he offers made 

Of "pardon on submission: 
But savage bands should waste the lands 

Of all in opposition." 



Thus may America's brave sons 

With honor be rewarded. 
And be the fate of all her foes 

The same as here recorded. 

1777. 

A PASTORAL SONG 
Joseph Stansbury 

When war with his bellowing sound 

Pervades each once happy retreat 
And friendship no longer is found 

With those who her praises repeat; 
The good from the crowd may retire 

And follow sweet peace to the grove 
Where virtue rekindles her fire 

And raises an altar to love. 

There blest with a sociable few — 

The few that are just and sincere — 1° 
We bid the ambitious adieu. 

And drop them, in pity, a tear. 
We grieve at the fury and rage 

Which burn in the breasts of our foes. 
We fain would that fury assuage ; 

We dare not that fury oppose. 

With peace and simplicity blest, 

No troubles our pleasures annoy ; 
We quaff the pure stream with a zest 

The temp'rate alone can enjoy. 2° 

Thus innocent, chearful and gay 

The swift-fleeting moments secure : 
An age would seem short as a day 

With pleasures as simple and pure. 

Summer, 1778. 



I 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



73 



THE EPILOGUE 

Our farce is now finished, your sport's 

at an end, 
But ere you depart, let the voice of a 

friend, 
By way of a chorus the evening crown, 
With a song to the tune of a hey derry 

down. 
Derry down, down, hey derry down. 

Old Shakespeare, a poet who should not 

be spit on, 
Altho' he was born in the island called 

Briton, 
Hath said that mankind are all players 

at best, 
A truth we'll admit of, for the sake of 

the jest. 
Derry down, etc. ^° 

On this puny stage we have strutted our 

hour. 
And have acted our parts to the best of 

our power. 
That the farce has concluded not perfectly 

well 
Was surely the fault of the Devil in Hell. 
Derry down, etc. 

This Devil, you know, out of spleen to 

the church, 
Will often times leave his best friends in 

the lurch. 
And turn them adrift in the midst of 

their joy; 
'Tis a difficult matter to cheat the old 

boy. 
Derry down, etc. 20 

Since this is the case, we must e'en make 

the best 
Of a game that is lost; let us turn it to 

jest. 
We'll smile, nay, we'll laugh, we'll carouse 

and we'll sing, 
And cheerfully drink life and health to 

the King. 
Derry down, etc. 

Let Washington now from his mountains 

descend. 
Who knows but in George he may still 

find a friend. 
A Briton, although he loves bottle and 

wench. 
Is an honester fellow than paries vous 

French. 
Derry down, etc. 3° 



Our great Independence we give to the 

wind, 
And pray that Great Britain may once 

more be kind. 
In this jovial song all hostility ends. 
And Britons and we will for ever be 

friends. 
Derry down, etc. 

Boy, fill me a bumper, now join in the 
chorus. 

There's happiness still in the prospect be- 
fore us; 

In this sparkling glass all hostility ends. 

And Britons and we will for ever be 
friends. 
Derry down, etc. 4° 

Good night, my good people, retire to 

your houses, 
Fair ladies, I beg you convince your fair 

spouses, 
That Britons and we are united in bliss, 
And ratify all with a conjugal kiss. 
Derry down, etc. 

Once more, here's a health to the King 

and the Queen, 
Confusion to him who in rancor and 

spleen. 
Refuses to drink with an English friend. 
Immutable amity to the world's end. 
Derry down, etc. 5° 

A Broadside, Philadelphia and New 

York, Oct. 24, 1778. 
Rivington's Royal Gazette, Oct'. 24, 

1778. 



YANKEE DOODLE 1 

Father and I went down to camp, 
Along with Captain Gooding, 

And there we see the men and boys, 
As thick as hasty pudding. 

Chorus 

Yankee Doodle, keep it up, 

Yankee Doodle, dandy. 
Mind the music and the step, 

And with the girls be handy. 

^ See "The Origin of Yankee Doodle," by 
B. J. Lossing, Littell's Living Age (July, 1861). 
This gives the complete poem with its history 
ana its ballad origins. 



74 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And there we see a thousand men, 
As rich as 'Squire David; 'o 

And what they wasted every day 
I wish it could be saved. 

The 'lasses they eat every day 
Would keep an house a winter; 

They have as much that, I'll be bound. 
They eat it when they're a mind to. 

And there we see a swamping gun, 

Large as a log of maple, 
Upon a deuced little cart, 

A load for father's cattle. 20 

And every time they shoot it off, 

It takes a horn of powder, 
And makes a noise like fathei-'s gun, 

Only a nation louder. 

I went as nigh to one myself 

As Siah's underpinning; 
And father went as nigh again, 

I thought the deuce was in him. 

Cousin Simon grew so bold, 

I thought he would have cocked it; 30 
It scared me so, I shrinked it off, 

And hung by father's pocket. 

And Captain Davis has a gun. 
He kind of clapt his hand on't. 

And stuck a crooked stabbing iron 
Upon the little end on't. 

And there I see a pumpkin shell 

As big as mother's bason; 
And every time they touched it off, 

They scampered like the nation. 4° 

I see a little barrel too. 

The heads were made of leather. 
They knocked upon 't with little clubs 

And called the folks together. 

And there was Captain Washington, 

And gentlefolks about him. 
They say he's grown so tarnal proud 

He will not ride without 'em. 

He got him on his meeting clothes. 
Upon a slapping stallion, so 

He set the world along in rows, 
In hundreds and in millions. 

The flaming ribbons in his hat, 
They looked so tearing fine ah, 

I wanted pockily to get, 
To give to my Jemimah. 



I see another snarl of men 
A digging graves, they told me, 

So tarnal long, so tarnal deep. 
They 'tended they should hold me. 60 

It scared me so, I hooked it off. 

Nor stopped, as I remember, 
Nor turned about, till I got home, 

Locked up in mother's chamber. 

(Undated.) 

YANKEE DOODLE'S EXPEDITION 
TO RHODE ISLAND 

From Lewis, Monsieur Gerard came. 
To Congress in this town, sir. 

They bowed to him, and he to them. 
And then they all sat down, sir. 

Begar, said Monsieur, one grand coup 

You shall bientot behold, sir; 
This was believed as gospel true, 

And Jonathan felt bold, sir. 

So Yankee Doodle did forget 
The sound of British drum, sir, 10 

How oft it made him quake and sweat. 
In spite of Yankee rum, sir. 

He took his wallet on his back. 

His rifle on his shoulder. 
And veowed Rhode Island to attack, 

Before he was much older. 

In dread array their tattered crew 
Advanced with colors spread, sir, 

Their fifes played Yankee doodle, doo, 
King Hancock at their head, sir. 20 

What numbers bravely crossed the seas, 

I can not well determine, 
A swarm of rebels and of fleas, M 

And every other vermin. Vi 

Their mighty hearts might shrink they 
thought. 

For all flesh only grass is, 
A plenteous store they therefore brought 

Of whiskey and molasses. 

They swore they'd make bold Pigot 
squeak. 

So did their good ally, sir, 30 

And take him prisoner in a week, 

But that was all my eye, sir. 

As Jonathan so much desired 

To shine in martial story, 
D'Estaing with politeness retired. 

To leave him all the glory. 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



75 



He left him what was better yet, 
At least it was more use, sir. 

He left him for a quick retreat, 
A very good excuse, sir. 4° 

To stay, unless he ruled the sea, 
He thought would not be right, sir, 

And Continential troops, said he. 
On islands should not fight, sir. 

Another cause with these combined. 
To throw him in the dumps, sir. 

For Clinton's name alarmed his mind, 
And made him stir his stumps, sir. 

Rivington's Gazette, Oct. 3, 1778. 



A FABLE 

David Matthews (?) 

Rejoice, Americans, rejoice! 
Praise ye the Lord with heart and voice ! 
The treaty's signed with faithful France, 
And now, like Frenchmen, sing and dance ! 

But when your joy gives way to reason. 
And friendly hints are not deemed trea- 
son. 
Let me, as well as I am able, 
Present your Congress with a fable. 

Tired out with happiness, the frogs 
Sedition croaked through all their bogs ; lo 
And thus to Jove the restless race, 
Made out their melancholy case. 

"Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer, 

We merit sure peculiar care; 

But can we think great good was meant 

us, 
When logs for Governors were sent us? 

"Which numbers crushed they fell upon. 
And caused great fear, — till one by one, 
As courage came, we boldly faced 'em, 
Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em ! 

"Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer 

fool us, 21 

None but ourselves are fit to rule us; 
W^e are too large, too free a nation. 
To be encumbered with taxation ! 

"We pray for peace, but wish confusion, 
Then right or wrong, a — revolution ! 
Our hearts can never bend to obey; 
Therefore no king — and more we'll pray." 



Jove smiled, and to their fate resigned 
The restless, thankless, rebel kind; 30 

Left to themselves, they went to work, 
And signed a treaty with king Stork. 

He swore that they, with his alliance, 
To all the world might bid defiance; 
Of lawful rule there was an end on't. 
And frogs were henceforth — independent. 

At which the croakers, one and all, 
Proclaimed a feast, and festival! 
But joy to-day brings grief to-morrow; 
Their feasting o'er, now enter sorrow ! 4° 

The Stork grew hungry, longed for fish; 
.The monarch could not have his wish; 
In rage he to the marshes flies. 
And makes a meal of his allies. 

Then grew so fond of well-fed frogs. 
He made a larder of the bogs! 
Say, Yankees, don't you feel compunction, 
At your unnatural rash conjunction? 

Can love for you in him take root. 
Who's Catholic, and absolute? 5° 

I'll tell these croakers how he'll treat 'em ; 
Frenchmen, like storks, love frogs— to 
eat 'em. 

Rivington's Royal Gazette, 1778. 



A CRY TO BATTLE 

J. M. Sewall 

Ye see mankind the same in every age; 
Heroic fortitude, tyrannic rage. 
Boundless ambition, patriotic truth, 
And hoary treason, and untainted youth, 
Have deeply marked all periods and all 

climes : 
The noblest virtues, and the blackest 

crimes ! 
Britannia's daring sins and virtues both, 
Perhaps once marked the Vandal and the 

Goth, 
And what now gleams with dawning ray 

at home 
Once blazed in full-orbed majesty at 

Rome. 10 

Did Caesar, drunk with power, and 

madly brave. 
Insatiate burn, his country to enslave? 
Did he for this lead forth a servile host. 
And spill the choicest blood that Rome 

could boast? 



76 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Our British Caesar too has done the same, 
And damned this age to everlasting fame. 
Columbia's crimsoned fields still smoke 

with gore ! 
Her bravest heroes cover all the shore ! 
The flower of Britain too in martial 

bloom, 
In one sad year sent headlong to the 

tomb ! 20 



Rise then, my countrymen ! for fight 

prepare. 
Gird on your swords, and fearless rush 

to war ! 
For your grieved country nobly dare to 

die, 
And empty all your veins for liberty. 
No pent-up Utica contracts your powers. 
But the whole boundless continent is 

yours ! 

Epilogue to "Cato," 1778. 



Like lions how ye growl and threat! mere 

asses have you shown, 
And ye shall share an ass's fate, and 

drudge for Washington ! 

Your dark unfathomed councils our 

weakest heads defeat, 
Our children rout your armies, our boats 

destroy your fleet. 
And to complete the dire disgrace, cooped 

up within a town, 
You live the scorn of all our host, the 

slaves of Washington. 20 

Great Heavens ! is this the nation whose 

thundering arms were hurled, 
Through Europe, Afric, India? whose 

navy ruled the world? 
The luster of your former deeds, whole 

ages of renown. 
Lost in a moment, or transferred to us 

and Washington ! 



WAR AND WASHINGTON 
J. M. Sewall 

Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud 

indignity, 
By land your conquering legions, your 

matchless strength at sea. 
Since we, your braver sons incensed, our 

swords have girded on, 
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, for war and 

Washington. 

Urged on by North and vengeance those 

valiant champions came, 
Loud bellowing Tea and Treason, and 

George was all on flame, 
Yet sacrilegious as it seems, we rebels 

still live on, 
And laugh at all their empty puffs, huzza 

for Washington. 

Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind 
to England's good, 

You have for thirty pieces betrayed your 
country's blood. 10 

Like Esop's greedy cur you'll gain a 
shadow for your bone, 

Yet find us fearful shades indeed, in- 
spired by Washington. 

Mysterious ! unexampled ! incomprehen- 
sible ! 

The blundering schemes of Britain their 
folly, pride, and zeal, 



Yet think not thirst of glory unsheaths 

our vengeful swords 
To rend your bands asunder, and cast 

away your cords. 
'Tis heaven-born freedom fires us all, 

and strengthens each brave son. 
From him who humbly guides the plough, 

to godlike Washington. 

For this, oh could our wishes your an- 
cient rage inspire, 

Your armies should be doubled, in num- 
bers, force, and fire. 3° 

Then might the glorious conflict prove 
which best deserved the boon, 

America or Albion, a George or Wash- 
ington. 

Fired with the great idea, our Fathers' 
shades would rise, 

To view the stern contention, the gods 
desert their skies ; 

And Wolfe, 'midst hosts of heroes, supe- 
rior bending down, 

Cry out with eager transport, God save 
great Washington. 

Should George, the choice of Britons, to 

foreign realms apply. 
And madly arm half Europe, yet still we 

would defy 
Turk, Hessian, Jew, and Infidel, or all I 

those powers in one, 
While Adams guides our senate, our camp 

great Washington ! 4° 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



77 



Should warlike weapons fail us, disdain- 
ing slavish fears, 
To swords we'll beat our ploughshares, 
our pruning-hooks to spears, 

And rush, all desperate ! on our foe, nor 
breathe till battle won. 

Then shout, and shout America ! and con- 
quering Washington ! 

Proud France should view with terror, 
and haughty Spain revere. 
While every warlike nation would court 

alliance here ; 
And George, his minions trembling round, 

dismounting from his throne. 
Pay homage to America and glorious 
Washington. 

From "Cato," 1778. 



Last year rebellion proudly stood, 

Elate, in her meridian glory; 
But this shall quench her pride in blood — 

George will avenge each martyr'd Tory. 

Then bring us wine, full bumpers bring : 
Hail this New Year in joyful chorus; 
God bless great George, our gracious king, 
And crush rebellion down before us. 
'Tis New Year's morn; why should 
we part? 
Why not enjoy what heaven has 
sent us? 30 

Let wine expand the social heart. 
Let friends, and mirth, and wine 
content us. 

Rivington's Royal Gazette, Jan. 2, 1779. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW: 
A PROPHECY 

J. Odell(?) 

What though last year be past and gone, 
Why should we grieve or mourn about it? 
As good a year is now begun. 
And better, too, — let no one doubt it. 
'Tis New Year's morn; why should 
we part? 
Why not enjoy what heaven has 
sent us? 
Let wine expand the social heart, 
Let friends, and mirth, and wine 
content us. 

War's rude alarms disturb'd last year; 

Our country bled and wept around us ; 
But this each honest heart shall cheer, " 

And peace and plenty shall surround us. 

Last year saw many honest men 

Torn from each dear and sweet con- 
nection : 

But this shall see them home again, 
And happy in their King's protection. 

Last year "King Congo" through the land, 
Display'd his thirteen stripes to fright 
us; 

But George's power, in Clinton's hand. 
In this New Year shall surely right us. 

Last year vain Frenchmen brav'd our 

coasts. 

And baffled Howe, and scap'd from 

Byron ; 

But this shall bring their vanquish'd hosts 

To crouch beneath the British lion. 20 



THE PRESENT AGE 

Of all the ages ever known. 

The present is the oddest; 
For all the men are honest grown, 

And all the women modest. 

Nor lawyers now are fond of fees, 

Nor clergy of their dues. 
No idle people now one sees, 

At church no empty pews. 

No courtiers now their friends deceive 
With promises of favor; 1° 

For what they made 'em once believe 
Is done and done forever. 

Our nobles — Heaven defend us all ! 

I'll nothing say about 'em; 
For they are great and I'm but small. 

So muse, jog on without 'em. 

Our gentry are a virtuous race, 

Despising earthly treasures; 
Fond of true honor's noble chase, 

And quite averse to pleasures. ^ 

The ladies dress so plain indeed. 
You'd think 'em Quakers all; 

Witness the wool-packs on their heads. 
So comely and so small. 

No tradesman now forsakes his shop, 

For politics or news; 
Or takes his dealer at a hop 

Through interested views. 

No soaking sot forsakes his spouse 
For mugs of mantling nappy; 30 

Nor taverns tempt him from his house, 
Where all are pleased and happy. 



78 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Our frugal taste the State secures, 
Whence then can woes begin? 

For luxury's turned out of doors, 
And prudence taken in. 

From hence proceeds the abundant flow 

Of plenty through the land; 
Where all provisions, all men know. 

Are cheap on every hand. 40 

No pleasure-chaises fill the streets, 
Nor crowd the roads on Sunday; 

So horses, ambling through the week, 
Obtain a respite one day. 

All gaming, tricking, swearing, lying. 
Is grown quite out of fashion ; 

For modern youth's so self-denying 
It flies all lawless passion. 

Happy the nation thus endowed ! 

So void of wants and crimes; 5° 

Where all are rich and none are proud, 

Oh ! these are glorious times. 

Your characters (with wondering stare 
Cries Tom) are mighty high, sir; 

But pray forgive me, if I swear, 
I think they're all a lie, sir. 

Ha ! +hink you so, my honest clown ? 

Then take another light on't; 
Just turn the picture upside down, 

I fear you'll see the right on't. ^ 

The Freeman's Journal or the New 
Hampshire Gazette, 1779. 

THE CONGRATULATION 

Jonathan Odell 

Dii boni, boni quid porta.— Terenck. 

Joy to Great Congress, joy an hundred 

fold : 
The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd! 
In vain has [Franklin's] artifice been tried, 
And Louis swell'd with treachery and 

pride : 
Who reigns supreme in heav'n deception 

spurns. 
And on the author's head the mischief 

turns. 

^ Written by Rev. Dr. Odell, on occasion of the 
failure of the great expectations entertained by 
the Americans from the presence in our waters 
of D'Estaing's fleet during the years 1778 and 
1779. This piece appears to have been very 
popular at the period, being printed at New 
York in Rivington's Royal Gazette of Novem- 
ber 6th, 1779; and again in the Supplement of 
November 24th. — (Winthrop Sargent's Note.) 



What pains were taken to procure D'Es- 

taing ! 
His fleet's dispers'd, and Congress may 

go hang. 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 
fold: 

The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 
jol'd! 10 

Heav'ns King sends forth the hurricane 
and strips 

Of all their glory the perfidious ships. 

His Ministers of Wrath the storm direct: 

Nor can the Prince of Air his French pro- 
tect. 

St. George, St. David shpw'd themselves 
true hearts ; 

St. Andrew and St. Patrick topp'd their 
parts. 

With right Eolian puffs the wind they 
blew; 

Crack went the masts ; the sails to shivers 
flew. 

Such honest saints shall never be forgot : 

St. Dennis, and St. Tammany go rot. ^o 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 

fold: 
The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 
jol'd! 
Old Satan holds a council in mid-air; 
Hear the black Dragon furious rage and 

swear — 
— Are these the triumphs of my Gallic 

friends? 
How will you ward this blow, my trusty 

fiends? 
What remedy for this unlucky job? 
What art shall raise the spirits of the 

mob? 
Fly swift, ye sure supporters of my realm. 
Ere this ill-news the rebels overwhelm. 3° 
Invent, say anything to make them mad ; 
Tell them the King — No, Dev'ls are not 

so bad ; 
The dogs of Congress at the king let 

loose; 
But ye, brave Dev'ls, avoid such mean 

abuse. 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 
fold: 

The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 
jol'd ! 

What thinks Sir Washington of this mis- 
chance; 

Blames he not those, who put their trust 
in France? 38 



I 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



79 



A broken reed comes pat into his mind : 
Egypt and France by rushes are defined. 
Basest of Kingdoms underneath the skies, 
Kingdoms that could not profit their al- 

Hes. 
How could the tempest play him such a 

prank ? 
Blank is his prospect, and his visage 

blank : 
Why from West Point his armies has he 

brought? 
Can naught be done? sore sighs he at the 

thought. 
Back to his mountains Washington may 

trot: 
He take this city — yes, when Ice is hot. 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 

fold : 
The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 

jol'd! so 

Ah, poor militia of the Jersey state, 
Your hopes are bootless, you are come 

too late, 
Your four hours plunder of New York is 

fled. 
And grievous hunger haunts you in its 

stead. 
Sorrow and sighing seize the Yankee race, 
When the brave Briton looks them in the 

face: 
The brawny Hessian, the bold Refugee, 
Appear in arms, and lo ! the rebels flee ; 
Each in his bowels griping spankue feels ; 
Each drops his haversack, and trusts his 

heels. 60 

Scamp'ring and scouring o'er the fields 

they run, 
And here you find a sword, and there a 

gun. 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 

fold : 
The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 

jol'd! 
The doleful tidings Philadelphia reach. 
And Duffield cries — The wicked make a 

breach ! 
Members of Congress in confusion meet. 
And with pale countenance each other 

greet. 
— No comfort, brother? — Brother, none at 

all, 
Fall'n is our tower : yea, broken down our 

wall. 70 

Oh brother, things are at a dreadful 

pass : 
Brother, we sinn'd in going to the Mass. 



The Lord, who taught our fingers how 

to fight. 
For this denied to curb the tempest's 

might : 
Our paper coin refus'd for flour we see. 
And lawyers will not take it for a fee. 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 
fold : 

The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 
jol'd! 

What caus'd the French from Parker's 
fleet to steal? 

They wanted thirty thousand casks of 
meal. 80 

Where are they now — can mortal man 
reply ? 

Who finds them out must have a Lynx's 
eye. 

Some place them in the ports of Chesa- 
peak : 

Others account them bound to Martin- 
ique ; 

Some think to Boston they intend to go; 

And some suppose them in the deep be- 
low. 

One thing is certain, be they where they 
will. 

They keep their triumph most exceeding 
still. 

They have not even Pantagruel's luck. 

Who conquer'd two old women and a 
duck. 90 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred 

fold : 
The grand cajolers are themselves ca- 

jol'd! 
How long shall the deluded people look 
For the French squadron moor'd at Sandy 

Hook? 
Of all their hopes the comfort and the 

stay. 
This vile deceit at length must pass away. 
What imposition can be thought on next. 
To cheer their partizans, with doubt per- 

plex'd? 
Dollars on dollars heap'd up to the skies, 
' Their value sinks the more, the more they 

rise ; _ ^°° 

Bank notes of bankrupts, struck without 

a fund, 
Puif'd for a season, will at last be 

shunn'd. 
Call forth invention, ye renown'd in guile ; 
New falsehoods frame in matter, and in 

style ; 
Send some enormous fiction to the press ; 
Again prepare the circular address ; 



80 



AMERICAN POETRY 



\N ith lies, with tioiisoiiso, koop the people The fall of Congress prove tlie world's 

drunk: relief: 

For should they ouce reflect, your power And tle;ithless glory crown the godlike 

is sunk. Chief ! 



lov to great Congress, jov an hundred lov to great Congress, joy an hundred 

foUf: ^ ' ' ' ' foUf: 

The grand eaiolers are themselves ca- The grand cajolers are themselves ea- 

jol'd! '»^^ jol'd! 

The farce of empire will he finished soon. What now is left of Continental brags? 

And each mock-monarch dwindle to a Taxes unpaid, tho' payahle in rags. 

loon. What now remains of Continental force? 

Mock-money and mock-states shall melt Rattalions mould'ring: Waste without re- 

away, source. 

And the mock-troops disband for want of What rests there yet of Continental Sway? 

pay. A ruin'd People ripe to disohey. 'So 

Ev'n now decisive ruin is prepar'd. Hate now of men, and soon to he the 
Ev'n now the heart of Huntington is Jest; 

scar'd. Such is your fate, ye Monsters of the 
Seen or unseen, on earth, above, below. West! 

All things conspire to give the fmal blow. Yet must on every face a smile be worn, 

Heav'n has ten thousand thunderbolts to While every breast with agony is torn. 

dart: Hopeless yourselves, yet hope you must 
From Hell, ten thousand livid flames will impart. 

start; '-''' And comfort others with an aching heart. 

Myriads of swords are ready for the 111 fated they who. lost at home, must 

field ; boast 

^lyriads of lurking daggers are conceal'd ; Of help expected from a foreign coast: 

In injur'd bosoms dark revenge is luirst : How wretched is their lot. to l'>ance and 
Yet iuit a moment, and the storm shall Spain, 



Who look for succor, but who look in 
vain. 160 

Tov to great Congress, joy an hundred 

fold: 
The grand eaiolers are themselves ca- 

jol'd! 
Courage, my hoys ; dismiss your chilling 

fears : 
Attend to tne. I'll put you in your geers. 
Now Sickness, that of late made heroes Come, Fit instruct vou how to advertize 



burst. 

Tov to great Congress, iov an hundred 

fold": 
The grand eaiolers are themselves ca- 

jol'd! 
Now War, suspended by the scorching 

heat. 
Springs from his tent, and shines in arms 

complete. 



Your missing friends, vour hide-and-seek 

Allies. ^ 
O YES! — If any man alive will bring 
News of the squadron of the Christian 

King : 
If any man will find out Count D'Estaing. 



pale. 
Flies from the keenness of the northern 

gale. '-''^ 

Firmness and Enterprise, iniited, wait 
The last command, to strike the stroke of 

Fate. 

Now Boston trembles: Fhiladolphia With whose scrub actions both the Indies 

quakes : rang : 170 

And Carolina to the center shakes. If any- man will ascertain on oath 

There is, whose councils the just moment What has become of Monsieur de la 

scan : Mothe : 

Whose wisdom meditates the mighty plan : Whoever these important points explains. 

He, when the season is mature, shall Congress will nobly pay him for his pains. 

speak; Oi pewter dollars, what both hands can 

All Heav'n shall plaud him. and all Hell hold. 

shall shriek. A thimbleful of plate, a mite of gold; 

At his dread fiat tumult shall retire; The lands of some big Tory he shall get, 

Abhorred rebellion sicken and expire ; Mo And start a famous Colonel (•;( brevet; 



I 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



81 



And last to honour him Cwe scorn to 

hrihcj 

We'll make him chief of the Oneida 

Tribe! ^^> 

Rivinyton's Royal Gazette, Nov. 6, 1779. 



THE AMERICAN TIMES 

A Satire 

In Three Parts 

Facit w.difjnati.i versum — Juvenal. 

By CAMILLO OCKKNO 

(Dr. Jonathan Ouell) 
Chaplain to the Congress. 

From Part I 

When Faction, pois'nous as the scorpion's 

sting, 
Infects the people, and insults the King; 
When foul Sedition skulks no more con- 

ceal'd, 
But grasps the sword and rushes to the 

field; 
When Justice, Law and Truth are in dis- 
grace 
And Treason, Fraud and Murder fill their 

place : 
Smarting beneath accumulated woes, 
Shall we not dare the tyrants to expose? 
We will, we must — though mighty Laurens 

frown. 
Or Hancock with his rabVjle hunt us 

down ; 'o 

Champions of virtue, we'll alike disdain 
The guards of Washington, the lies of 

Paine, 
And greatly bear, without one anxious 

throb, 
The wrath of Congress, or its lords the 

mob. 
Bad are the Times, almost too bad to 

paint ; 
The whole head sickens, the whole heart 

is faint : ' 

The State is rotten, rotten to the core 
'Tis all one bruize, one putrefying sore. 
Here Anarchy before the gaping crowd 
Proclaims the people's majesty aloud; 20 
There I'Vjlly runs with eagerness about. 
And prompt the cheated populace to 

shout ; 
Here paper-dollars meager Famine holds. 
There votes of Congress Tyranny un- 
folds ; 
With doctrines strange in matter and in 

dress, 



Here sounds the pulpit, and there groans 
the press; 

Confusion blows her trump — and far and 
wide 

The noise is heard — the plough is laid 
aside; 

The awl, the needle, and the shuttle drops; 

Tools change to swords, and camps suc- 
ceed to shops; v> 

The doctor's glister-pipe, the lawyer's 
quill, 

Transform'd to guns, retain their pow'r 
to kill; 

From garrets, cellars, rushing thro' the 
street. 

The new-born statesmen in committee 
meet; 

Legions of senators infest the land, 

And mushroom generals thick as mush- 
rooms stand. 

Ye western climes, where youthful plenty 
smil'd. 

Ye plains just rescued from the dreary 
wild. 

Ye cities just emerging into fame. 

Ye minds new ting'd with learning's 
sacred flame, ¥> 

Ye people wondering at your swift in- 
crease 

Sons of united liberty and peace. 

How are your glories in a moment fled? 

See, Pity weeps, and Honour hangs its 
head. 

Not always generals offer to our aim, — 
By turns we must advert t' inferior game. 
Yet hard to rescue from oblivion's grasp 
The worthless beetle and the noxious asp; 
And full as hard to save from after-times 
The names of men known only for their 

crimes. 5'"j 

Left to themselves they soon would be 

forgot ; 
But yet 'tis right that rogues should hang 

and rot. 

Strike up, hell's music! roar, infernal 

drums ! 
Discharge the cannon! Lo, the warrior 

comes ! 
He comes, not tame as on Ohio's banks 
Rut rampant at the head of ragged ranks. 
Hunger and itch are with him — Gates and 

Wayne ! 
And all the lice of Egypt in his train. 
Sure these are Falstaff's soldiers, poor 

and bare, 59 

Or else the rotten reg'ments of Rag Fair. 



82 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Bid the French generals to their chief ad- 
vance, 
And grace his suite — O shame ! they're 

fled to France. 
Wilt thou, great chief of Freedom's law- 
less sons, 
Great captain of the western , Goths and 

Huns, 
Wilt thou for once permit a private man 
To parley with thee, and thy conduct scan? 
At Reason's bar has Catiline been heard : 
At Reason's bar e'en Cromwell has ap- 
peared. 
Successless or successful, all must stand 
At her tribunal with uplifted hand 7° 

Severe, but just, the case she fairly states 
And fame or infamy her sentence waits. 

Hear thy indictment, Washington, at 

large ; 
Attend and listen to the solemn charge : 
Thou hast supported an atrocious cause 
Against thy King, thy Country, and the 

laws ; 
Committed perjury, encourag'd lies. 
Forced conscience, broken the most sacred 

ties ; 
Myriads of wives and fathers at thy hand 
Their slaughter'd husbands, slaughter'd 

sons, demand ; 80 

That pastures hear no more the lowing kine, 
That towns are desolate, all — all is thine; 
The frequent sacrilege that pained my sight, 
The blasphemies my pen abhors to write, 
Innumerable crimes on thee must fall — 
For thou maintainest, thou defendest all. 

Wilt thou pretend that Britain is in fault? 

In Reason's court a falsehood goes for 
nought. 

Will it avail, with subterfuge refin'd 

To say, such deeds are foreign to thy 
mind? 9° 

Wilt thou assert that, generous and hu- 
mane, 

Thy nature suffers at another's pain? 

He who a band of ruffians keeps to kill 

Is he not guilty of the blood they spill? 

Who guards M'Kean, and Joseph Reed 
the vile, 

Help'd he not murder Roberts and Car- 
lisle? 

Lo, who protects committees in the chair 

In all their shocking cruelties must share. 

What could, when half-way up the hill to 

fame. 
Induce thee to go back, and link with 

shame? 1°° 



Was it ambition, vanity, or spite 

That prompted thee with Congress to 

unite ; 
Or did all three within thy bosom roll, 
"Thou heart of hero with a traitor's soul"? 
Go, wretched author of thy country's 

Patron of villainy, of villains chief; 
Seek with thy cursed crew the central 

gloom. 
Ere Truth's avenging sword begin thy 

doom; 
Or sudden vengeance of celestial dart 
Precipitate thee with augmented smart, "o 

From Part III 

Stand forth. Taxation ! kindler of the 

flame — 
Inexplicable question, doubtful claim : 
Suppose the right in Britain to be clear, 
Britain was mad to exercise it here. 
Call it unjust, or, if you please, unwise. 
The colonists were mad in arms to rise : 
Impolitic, and open to abuse, 
How could it answer — what could it pro- ■ 

duce? 
No need for furious demagogues to chafe, 
America was jealous, and was safe; ^^o 
Secure she stood in national alarms, 
And Madness only would have flown to 

arms. 
Arms could not help the tribute, nor con- 
found : 
Self-slain it must have tumbled to the 

ground. 
Impossible the scheme should e'er succeed. 
Why lift the spear against a brittle reed? 
But arm they would, ridiculously brave; 
Good laughter, spare me; I would fain be 

grave : 
So arm they did — the knave led on the 

fool ; 
Good anger, spare me; I would fain be 

cool: . . ^^°' 

Mixtures were seen amazing in their kind ; 
Extravagance with cruelty was joined. 
The presbyterian with the convict march'd ; 
The meeting-house was thinn'd, the gaol 

was search'd : 
Servants were seiz'd, apprentices enroll'd : 
Youth guarded not the boy, nor age the 

old: 
Tag, rag and bobtail issued on the foe, 
Marshal'd by generals — Ewin, Roberdeau. 

This was not Reason — this was wildest 

rage, 
To make the land one military stage: 14° 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



83 



The strange resolve, obtain'd the Lord 
knows how. 

Which forc'd the farmer to forsake the 
plough ; 

Bade tradesmen mighty warriors to be- 
come. 

And lawyers quit the parchment for the 
drum; 

To fight they knew not why, they knew 
not what; 

Was surely Madness — Reason it was not. 

Next independence came, that German 

charm 
Of pow'r to save from violence and harm; 
That curious olio, vile compounded dish. 
Like salmagundy, neither flesh nor fish; 150 
That brazen serpent, rais'd on Freedom's 

pole. 
To render all who look'd upon it whole; 
That half-dressed idol of the western 

shore 
All rags behind, all elegance before : 
That conj'ror, which conveys away your 

gold. 
And gives you paper in its stead to hold. 

Heav'ns ! how my breast has swell'd with 

painful throb 
To view the phrenzy of the cheated mob: 
True sons of liberty in flattering thought;' 
But real slaves to basest bondage brought : 
Frantic as Bacchanals in ancient times, i^i 
They rush'd to perpetrate the worst of 

crimes; 
Chas'd peace, chas'd order from each 

bless'd abode; 
While Reason stood abash'd, and Folly 

crow'd. 
Now, now erect the rich triumphal gate; 
The French alliance comes in solemn 

state. 
Hail to the master-piece of madness, hail 
This head of glory with a serpent's tail ! 
This seals, America, thy wretched doom: 
Here, Liberty, survey thy destin'd tomb : 
Behold the temple of tyrannic sway 171 
Is now complete — ye deep ton'd organs, 

play : 
Proclaim thro' all the land that Louis 

rules — 
Worship your saint, ye giddy-headed 

fools. 

Illustrious guardians of the laurel hill, 
Excuse this warmth, these sallies of the 
quill : 



I would be temperate, but severe disdain 
Calls for the lash whene'er I check the 

rein : 178 

I would be patient, but the teazing smart 
Of insects makes the fiery courser start. 
I wish'd for Reason in her calmest mood, 
In vain, — the cruel subject fires my blood. 
When thro' the land the dogs of havock 

roar. 
And the torn country bleeds in every pore, 
'Tis hard to keep the sober line of 

thought : 
The brain turns round with such ideas 

fraught. 
Rage makes a weapon blunt as mine to 

pierce 
And indignation gathers in the verse. 

1780. 



ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR 

Jonathan Odell 

When rival nations first descried, 
Emerging from the boundless main 
This land by tyrants yet untried, 
On high was sung this lofty strain: 
Rise Britannia beaming far ! 
Rise bright freedom's morning star. 

To distant regions unexplor'd 

Extend the blessings of thy sway; 

To yon benighted world afford 

The light of thy all-chearing ray; 1° 

Rise, Britannia, rise bright star 

Spread thy radiance wide and far! 

The shoots of science rich and fair, 
Transplanted from thy fostering isle 
And by thy genius nurtur'd there, 
Shall teach the wilderness to smile, 
Shine, Britannia, rise and shine ! 
To bless mankind the task be thine. 

Nor shall the Muses now disdain 
To find a new asylum there : ^ 

And ripe for harvest see the plain. 
Where lately rov'd the prowling bear. 
Plume, Britannia, plume thy wing! 
Teach the savage wild to sing ! 

From thee descended, there the swain 
Shall arm the port and spread the sail. 
And speed his traffick o'er the main 
With the skill to brave the sweeping gale : 
Skill, Britannia, taught by thee, 
Unrivall'd empress of the sea! 3o 



84 



AMERICAN POETRY 



This high and holy strain how true 
Had now from age to age been shown; 
And to the world's admiring view 
Rose freedom's transatlantic throne : 
Here, Britannia, here thy fame 
Long did we with joy proclaim. 

But ah ! what frenzy breaks a band 

Of love and union held so dear! 

Rebellion madly shakes the land, 

And love is turn'd to hate and fear. 4° 

Here, Britannia, here at last 

We feel contagion's deadly blast. 

Thus blind, alas, when all is well. 
Thus blind are mortals here below : 
As when apostate angels fell, 
Ambition turns our bliss to woe. 
Now, Britannia, now beware; 
For other conflicts now prepare. 

By thee controul'd for ages past, 

See now half Europe in array: so 

For wild ambition hopes at last 

To fix her long projected sway. 

Rise, Britannia, rise again 

The scourge of haughty France and Spain ! 

The howling tempest fiercely blows, 
And ocean rages in the storm : 
'Tis then the fearless pilot shows 
What British courage can perform. 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves 
And ruin all intruding slaves. 60 

Written at New York. January 1st, 1780. 



LORDS OF THE MAIN 

Joseph Stansbury 

When Faction, in league with the treach- 
erous Gaul, 
Began to look big, and paraded in state, 
A meeting was held at Credulity Hall, 
And Echo proclaimed their ally good 
and great. 

By sea and by land 
Such wonders are planned — 
No less than the bold British lion to 
chain ! 

Well hove ! says Jack Lanyard, 
French, Congo, and Spaniard. 
Have at you — remember, we're Lords of 
the Main! 10 

Lords of the Main, aye, Lords of the 

Main ; 
The Tars of Old England are Lords of 
the Main. 



Though party-contention awhile may per- 
plex, 
And lenity hold us in doubtful suspense, 
H perfidy rouse, or ingratitude vex 

In defiance of hell we'll chastise the 
offence. 

When danger alarms, 
'Tis then that in arms 
United we rush on the foe with disdain; 
And when the storm rages, 20 

It only presages 
Fresh triumphs to Britons, as Lords of 

the Main ! 
Lords of the Main — ay, Lords of the 

Main — 
Let Thunder proclaim it, we're Lords of 
the Main ! 

Then, Britons, strike home — make sure of 
your blow : 
The chase is in view; never mind a lee 
shore. 
With vengeance o'ertake the confederate 
foe: 
'Tis now we may rival our heroes of 
yore! 

Brave Anson, and Drake, 
Hawke, Russell, and Blake, 30 

W^ith ardour like yours, we defy France 
and Spain ! 

Combining with treason, 
They're deaf to all reason; 
Once more let them feel we are Lords of 

the Main. 
Lords of the Main — ay, Lords of the 

Main — 
The first-born of Neptune are Lords of 
the Main! 

Nor are we alone in the noble career; 
The Soldier partakes of the generous 
flame 
To glory he marches, to glory we steer; 
Between us we share the rich harvest 
of fame. 4° 

Recorded on high. 
Their names never die. 
Of heroes by sea and by land what a 
train. 

To the king, then, God bless him ! 
The world shall confess him 
The Lord of those men who are Lords of 

the Main ! 
Lords of the Main — ay, Lords of the 

Main — 
The Tars of Old England are Lords of 
the Main. . 

Riviiigton's Royal Gaaette, Feb. 16, 1780. 



♦ 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



85 



A PASQUINADE 
Joseph Stansbury 

"Has the Marquis La Fayette 

Taken ofif all our hay yet?" 
Says Clinton to the wise heads around 
him: 

"Yes, faith, Sir Harry, 

Each stack he did carry. 
And likewise the cattle — confound him! 

"Besides, he now goes, 

Just under your nose. 
To burn all the houses to cinder." 

"If that be his project, " 

It is not an object 
Worth a great man's attempting to hinder. 

"For forage and house 

I care not a louse; 
For revenge, let the Loyalists bellow; 

I swear I'll not do more 

To keep them in humor, 
Than play on my violincello. 

"Since Charleston is taken, 

'Twill sure save my bacon, — 20 

I can hve a whole year on that same, sir; 

Ride about all the day, 

At night, concert or play; 
So a fig for the men that dare blame, sir ; 

"If growlers complain, 

I inactive remain — 
Will do nothing, nor let any others! 

'Tis sure no new thing 

To serve thus our king — 
Witness Burgoyne, and two famous 
Brothers !" 3o 

Posted in New York, Aug. 25, 1780. 

VOLUNTEER BOYS 1 

Hence with the lover who sighs o'er his 
wine, 
Chloes and Phillises toasting. 
Hence with the slave who will whimper 
and whine 
Of ardor and constancy boasting. 
Hence with love's joys, 
Follies and noise, 
The toast that I give is the Volunteer 
Boys. 

1 This is attributed to Henry Archer, a young 
and wealthy Englishman who came to America 
in 1778 and volunteered in the Revolutionary 
army. The sixth and seventh stanzas must have 
iDeen written before his change of allegiance; 
but the song as a whole, whenever composed, 
was popular with the Colonials. 



Nobles and beauties and such common 
toasts, 
Those who admire may drink, sir; 
Fill up the glass to the volunteer hosts, 1° 
Who never from danger will shrink, sir. 
Let mirth appear. 
Every heart cheer. 
The toast that I give is the brave vol- 
unteer. 

Here's to the squire who goes to parade, 

Here's to the citizen soldier ; 
Here's to the merchant who fights for his 
trade. 
Whom danger increasing makes bolder. 
Let mirth appear, 

Union is here, 20 

The toast that I give is the brave vol- 
unteer. 

Here's to the lawyer who, leaving the bar, 

Hastens where honor doth lead, sir, 
Changing the gown for the ensigns of war. 
The cause of his country to plead, sir. 
Freedom appears. 
Every heart cheers. 
And calls for the health of the law vol- 
unteers. 

Here's to the soldier, though batter'd in 
wars, 
And safe to his farm-house retir'd; 3° 
When called by his country, ne'er thinks 
of his scars. 
With ardor to join us inspir'd. 
Bright fame appears. 
Trophies uprear, 
To veteran chiefs who become volunteers. 

Here's to the farmer who dares to ad- 
vance 
To harvests of honor with pleasure; 
Who with a slave the most skilful in 
France, 
A sword for his country would measure. 
Hence with cold fear, 40 

Heroes rise here; 
The ploughman is chang'd to the stout 
volunteer. 

Here's to the peer first in senate and field 

Whose actions to titles add grace, sir; 
Whose spirit undaunted would never yet 
yield 
To a foe, to a pension or place, sir. 
Gratitude here. 
Toasts to the peer, 
Who adds to his titles, "the brave volun- 
teer." 



S6 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Thus the bold bands for old Jersey's de- 
fence, so 
The muse hath with rapture review'd 
sir; 
With our volunteer boys, as our verses 
commence. 
With our volunteer boys they conclude, 
sir. 
Discord or noise 
Ne'er damp our joys. 
But health and success to the volunteer 
boys. 

SONG, FOR A VENISON DINNER 

Joseph Stansbury 

Friends, push round the bottle, and let us 

. be drinking. 
While Washington up in his mountains is 

slinking : 
Good faith, if he's wise he'll not leave 

them behind him. 
For he knows he's safe nowhere where 

Britons can find him. 
When he and Fayette talk of taking this 

city, 
Their vaunting moves only our mirth and 

our pity. 

But', though near our lines they're too 
cautious to tarry. 

What courage they shew when a hen- 
roost they harry ! 

Who can wonder that poultry and oxen 
and swine 

Seek shelter in York from such valor 
divine, — ^° 

While Washington's jaws and the French- 
man's are aching 

The spoil they have lost, to be boiling and 
baking. 

Let Clinton and Arnold bring both to sub- 
jection. 

And send us more geese here to seek our 
protection. 

Their flesh and their feathers shall meet 
a kind greeting; 

A fat rebel turkey is excellent eating, 

A lamb fat as butter, and white as a 
chicken — 

These sorts of tame rebels are excellent 
picking. 

To-day a wild rebel has smoaked on the 

table ; 
You've cut him and slic'd him as long as 

you're able. ^° 



He bounded like Congo, and bade you de- 
fiance. 

And plac'd on his running his greatest 
reliance ; 

But fate overtook him and brought him 
before ye, 

To shew how rebellion will wind up her 
story. 

Then chear up, my lads ! if the prospect 
grows rougher. 

Remember from whence and for whom 
'tis you suffer : — 

From men whom mild laws and too happy 
condition 

Have puffed up with pride and inflam'd 
with sedition ; 

For George, whose reluctance to punish 
offenders 

Has strengthened the hands of these up- 
start pretenders. 3° 

1781. 
THE DANCE 

Cornwallis led a country dance, 

The like was never seen, sir, 
Much retrogade and much advance. 

And all with General Greene, sir. 

They rambled up and rambled down, 
Joined hands, then off they run, sir, 

Ou'r General Greene to Charlestown, 
The earl to Wilmington, sir. 

Greene in the South, then danced a set. 
And got a mighty name, sir, ^° 

CornwaUis jigged with young Fayette, 
But suffered in his fame, sir. 

Then down he figured to the shore. 

Most like a lordly dancer. 
And on his courtly honor swore 

He would no more advance, sir. 

Quoth he, my guards are weary grown 

With footing country dances, 
They never at St. James's shone, 

At capers, kicks or prances. ^ 

Though men so gallant ne'er were seen, 
While sauntering on parade, sir. 

Or wriggling o'er the park's smooth 
green. 
Or at a masquerade, sir. 

Yet are red heels and long-laced skirts, 
For stumps and briars meet, sir? 

Or stand they chance with hunting-shirtSj 
Or hardy veteran feet, sir? 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 



87 



Now housed in York he challenged all, 
At minuet or all 'amande, 30 

And lessons for a courtly ball 

His guards by day and night conned. 

This challenge known, full soon there 
came, 

A set who had the bon ton, 
De Grasse and Rochambeau, whose fame 

Fut brillant pour un long tems. 

And Washington, Columbia's son. 
Whom easy nature taught, sir, 

That grace which can't by pains be won. 
Or Plutus's gold be bought, sir. 40 

Now hand in hand they circle round 

This ever-dancing peer, sir ; 
Their gentle movements soon confound 

The earl as they draw near, si/. 

His music soon forgets to play — 
His feet can no more move, sir, 

And all his bands now curse the day 
They jigged to our shore, sir. 

Now Tories all, what can ye say? 

Come — is not this a griper, so 

That while your hopes are danced away, 

'Tis you must pay the piper? 

1781. 



CORNWALLIS BURGOYNED 
Adapted to the air, "Maggie Lauder" 

When British troops first landed here. 

With Howe commander o'er them 
They thought they'd make us quake for 
fear, 

And carry all before them : 
With thirty thousand men or more, 

And she without assistance 
America must needs give o'er, 

And make no more resistance. 

But Washington, her glorious son, 

Of British hosts the terror, 10 

Soon, by repeated overthrows, 

Convinc'd them of their error: 
Let Princeton and let Trenton tell, 

What gallant deeds he's done, sir, 
And Monmouth's plains where hundreds 
fell 

And thousands more have run, sir. 

Cornwallis, too, when he approach'd 
Virginia's old dominion 



Thought he would soon her conqu'ror be ; 

And so was North's opinion. 20 

From State to State with rapid stride, 

His troops had march'd before, sir. 
Till quite elate with martial pride, 

He thought all dangers o'er, sir. 

But our allies, to his surprise. 

The Chesapeake had enter'd; 
And now_ too late, he cursed his fate 

And wish'd he ne'er had ventur'd. 
For Washington no sooner knew 

The visit he had paid her, 30 

Than to his parent State he flew, 

To crush the bold invader. 

When he sat down before the town, 

His lordship soon surrender'd : 
His martial pride he laid aside, 

And cased the British standard; 
Gods ! how this stroke will North provoke, 

And all his thoughts confuse, sir! 
And how the peers will hang their ears. 

When first they hear the news, sir. 40 

Be peace, the glorious end of war, 

By this event effected; 
And be the name of Washington, 

To latest times respected; 
Then let us toast America, 

And France in union with her; 
And may Great Britain rue the day 

Her hostile bands came hither. 

1781. 



LET US BE HAPPY AS LONG AS 
WE CAN 

Joseph Stansbury 

I've heard in old times that a sage used 

to say. 
The seasons were nothing, December, or 

May; 
The heat, or the cold never enter'd his 

plan — 
That all should be happy whenever they 

can. 

No matter what power directed the state. 
He looked upon such things as ordered 

by fate : 
Whether governed by many, or rul'd by 

one man. 
His rule was — be happy whenever you 

can. 



88 



AMERICAN POETRY 



He happen'd to enter this world the same 
day 

With the supple, complying, fam'd Vicar 
of Bray : ^° 

Thro' both of their lives the same, prin- 
ciple ran — 

My boys, we'll be happy as long as we 
can. 

Time-serving I hate, yet I see no good 

reason 
A leaf from their book should be thought 

out of season : 
When kick'd like a football from Sheba 

to Dan — 
Egad, let's be happy as long as we can. 



Since no man can tell what to-morrow 

may bring. 
Or which side shall triumph, the Congress 

or King, 
Since fate must o'errule us and carry her 

plan — 
Why, let us be happy as long as we can. 20 

To-night, let's enjoy this good wine and 

a song. 
And relish the hour which we cannot 

prolong : 
If evil will come, we'll adhere to our 

plan — • 
And baffle misfortune as long as we can. 

1782-3. 



n 



PHILIP FRENEAU 

(1752-1832) 



I 



{The text and author's notes are taken from 
early editions and collated with the invaluable 
"Poems of Philip Freneau," ed. by F. L. Pattee. 
3 vols. 1902.) 

THE POWER OF FANCY 

Wakeful, vagrant, restless thing, 
Ever wandering on the wing. 
Who thy wondrous source can find, 
Fancy, regent of the mind; 
A spark from Jove's resplendent throne, 
But thy nature all unknown. 

This spark of bright, celestial flame, 
From Jove's seraphic altar came. 
And hence alone in man we trace. 
Resemblance to the immortal race. i" 

Ah ! what is all this mighty whole. 
These suns and stars that round us roll ! 
What are they all, where'er they shine, 
But Fancies of the Power Divine ! 
What is this globe, these lands, and seas. 
And heat, and cold, and flowers, and trees. 
And life, and death, and beast, and man, 
And time — that with the sun began— 
But thoughts on reason's scale combin'd, 
Ideas of the Almighty mind ! ^o 

On the surface of the brain 
Night after night she walks unseen, 
Noble fabrics doth she raise 
In the woods or on the seas. 
On some high, steep, pointed rock. 
Where the billows loudly knock 
And the dreary tempests sweep 
Clouds along the uncivil deep. 

Lo ! she walks upon the moon. 
Listens to the chimy tune 30 

Of the bright, harmonious spheres, 
And the song of angels hears; 
Sees this earth a distant star, 
Pendant, floating in the air ; 
Leads me to some lonely dome, 
Where Religion loves to come, 
Where the bride of Jesus dwells, 
And the deep ton'd organ swells 
In notes with lofty anthems join'd. 
Notes that half distract the mind. 4° 

Now like lightning she descends 
To the prison of the fiends. 
Hears the rattling of their chains, 
Feels their never ceasing pains — 
But, O never may she tell 
Half the frightfulness of hell. 



Now she views Arcadian rocks, 
Where the shepherds guard their flocks. 
And, while yet her wings she spreads, 
Sees chrystal streams and coral beds, 5° 
Wanders to some desert deep. 
Or some dark, enchanted steep. 
By the full moonlight doth shew 
Forests of a dusky blue, 
Where, upon some mossy bed, 
Innocence reclines her head. 

Swift, she stretches o'er the seas 
To the far off Hebrides, 
Canvas on the lofty mast 
Could not travel half so fast^ — 6o 

Swifter than the eagle's flight 
Or instantaneous rays of light! 
Lo ! contemplative she stands 
On Norwegia's rocky lands — 
Fickle Goddess, set me down 
Where the rugged winters frown 
Upon Orca's howling steep. 
Nodding o'er the northern deep. 
Where the winds tumultuous roar, 
Vext that Ossian sings no more. 7° 

Fancy, to that land repair. 
Sweetest Ossian slumbers there; 
Waft me far to southern isles 
Where the soften'd winter smiles, 
To Bermuda's orange shades, 
Or Demarara's lovely glades; 
Bear me o'er the sounding cape. 
Painting death in every shape, 
Where daring Anson spread the sail 
Shatter'd by the stormy gale — 8o 

Lo ! she leads me wide and far. 
Sense can never follow her — 
Shape thy course o'er land and sea, 
Help me to keep pace with thee. 
Lead me to yon' chalky cliff. 
Over rock and over reef, 
Into Britain's fertile land, 
Stretching far her proud command. 
Look back and view, thro' many a year, 
Caesar, Julius Caesar, there. 9° 

Now to Tempe's verdant wood, 
Over the mid-ocean flood 
Lo! the islands of the sea — 
Sappho, Lesbos mourns for thee : 
Greece, arouse thy humbled head, 
Where are all thy mighty dead, 
Who states to endless ruin hurl'd 



89 



90 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And carried vengeance through the world? 

Troy, thy vanish'd pomp resume, 

Or, weeping at thy Hector's tomb, '0° 

Yet those faded scenes renew. 

Whose memory is to Homer due. 

Fancy, lead me wandering still 

Up to Ida's cloud-topt hill; 

Not a laurel there doth grow 

But in vision thou shalt show, — 

Every sprig on Virgil's tomb 

Shall in livelier colours bloom, 

And every triumph Rome has seen 

Flourish on the years between. no 

Now she bears me far away 
In the east to meet the day. 
Leads me over Ganges' streams, 
Mother of the morning beams — 
O'er the ocean hath she ran, 
Places me on Tinian; 
Farther, farther in the east. 
Till it almost meets the west. 
Let us wandering both be lost 
On Taitis sea-beat coast, 120 

Bear me from that distant strand. 
Over ocean, over land. 
To California's golden shore — 
Fancy, stop, and rove no more. 

Now, tho' late, returning home, 
Lead me to Belinda's tomb; 
Let me glide as well as you 
Through the shroud and coffin too, 
And behold, a moment, there. 
All that once was good and fair — 130 

Who doth here so soundly sleep? 
Shall we break this prison deep? 
Thunders cannot wake the maid. 
Lightnings cannot pierce the shade, 
And tho' wintry tempests roar, 
Tempests shall disturb no more. 

Yet must those eyes in darkness stay, 
That once were rivals to the day? — 
Like heaven's bright lamp beneath the main 
They are but set to rise again. mo 

Fancy, thou the muses' pride. 
In thy painted realms reside 
Endless images of things, 
Fluttering each on golden wings. 
Ideal objects, such a store. 
The universe could hold no more: 
Fancy, to thy power I owe 
Half my happiness below; 
By thee Elysian groves were made, ^49 
Thine were the notes that Orpheus play'd; 
By thee was Pluto charm'd so well 
While rapture seiz'd the sons of hell — 
Come, O come — perceiv'd by none. 
You and I will walk alone. 



1770. 



In "Poems," 1786. 



ON RETIREMENT 

By Hezekiah Salem 1 

A hermit's house beside a stream, 

With forests planted round. 
Whatever it to you may seem 
More real happiness I deem 

Than if I were a monarch crown'd. 

A cottage I could call my own. 

Remote from domes of care; 
A little garden walled with stone, 
The wall with ivy overgrown, 

A limpid fountain near. 10 

Would more substantial joys afford, 

More real bliss impart 
Than all the wealth that misers hoard, 
Than vanquish'd worlds, or worlds re- 
stored — 

Mere cankers of the heart! 

Vain, foolish man ! how vast thy pride, 
How little can your wants supply ! — 

'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide — 

You act as if you only had 

To vanquish — not to die ! 20 

In "Poems," 1786. 



A POLITICAL LITANY 

Libera Nos, Domine. — Deliver us, O 
Lord, not only from British depend- 
ence, but also 

From a junto that labour with absolute 

power, 
Whose schemes disappointed have made 

them look sour, ft 

From the lords of the council, who fightB 

against freedom. 
Who still follow on where delusion shall 

lead them. 

From the group at St. James's, who slight 

our petitions. 
And fools that are waiting for further 

submissions — 
From a nation whose manners are rough 

and severe, j 

From scoundrels and rascals, — do keep us 

all clear. 

From pirates sent out by command of the 

king 
To murder and plunder, but never to 

swing. 10 

^ A pseudonym frequently used by Freneau. 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



91 



From Wallace and Greaves, and , Vipers 

and Roses, 
Whom, if heaven pleases, we'll give bloody 

noses. 

From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew 

of banditti, 
Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg 

city. 
From hot-headed Montague, mighty to 

swear, 
The little fat man with his pretty white 

hair. 

From bishops in Britain, who butchers are 
grown, 

From slaves that would die for a smile 
from the throne, 

From assemblies that vote against Con- 
gress proceedings, 

(Who now see the fruit of their stupid 
misleadings.) ^° 

From Tryon the mighty, who flies from 

our city, 
And swelled with importance disdains the 

committee : 
(But since he is pleased to proclaim us 

his foes, 
What the devil care we where the devil 

he goes.) 

From the caitiff, lord North, who would 
bind us in chains. 

From a royal king Log, with his tooth- 
full of brains, 

Who dreams, and is certain (when taking 
a nap) 

He has conquered our lands, as they lay 
on his map. 

From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, 

and swears, 
We send up to heaven our wishes and 

prayers 3° 

That we, disunited, may freemen be still. 
And Britain go on — to be damned if she 
B< will. 
i June, 1775. 

■ AMERICAN LIBERTY 1 

Great guardians of our freedom, we pur- 
sue 
Each patriot measure as inspir'd by you, 
Columbia, nor shall fame deny it owes 
Past safety to the counsel you propose; 

^ The concluding lines of a long poem on 
American conditions from the "Present Situa- 
tion" to "Future Happiness," 



And if they do not keep Columbia free. 
What will alas! become of Liberty? 
Great souls grow bolder in their country's 

cause. 
Detest enslavers, and despise their laws. 
O Congress fam'd, accept this humble lay. 
The little tribute that the muse can pay; lo 
On you depends Columbia's future fate, 
A free asylum or a wretched state. 
Fall'n on disastrous times we push our 

plea. 
Heard or not heard, and struggle to be 

free. 
Born to contend, our lives we place at 

stake. 
And grow immortal by the stand we make. 

O you, who, far from liberty detain'd, 
Wear out existence in some slavish land. 
Fly thence from tyrants, and their flatt'r- 

ing throng. 
And bring the fiery freeborn soul along, ^o 
Neptune for you shall smooth the hoary 

deep. 
And awe the wild tumultuous waves to 

sleep ; 
Here vernal woods, and flow'ry meadows 

blow. 
Luxuriant harvests in rich plenty grow. 
Commerce extends as far as waves can 

roll, 
And freedom, God-like freedom^ crowns 

the whole. 
And you, brave men, who scorn the 

dread of death, 
Resolv'd to conquer to the latest breath, 
Soldiers in act, and heroes in renown. 
Warm in the cause of Boston's hapless 

town, 30 

Still guard each pass ; like ancient Ro- 
mans, you 
At once are soldiers, and are farmers too ; 
Still arm impatient for the vengeful blow, 
And rush intrepid on the yielding foe ; 
As when of late midst clouds of fire and 

smoke. 
Whole squadrons fell, or to the center 

shook. 
And even the bravest to your arm gave 

way. 
And death, exulting, ey'd the unhappy 

fray. 
Behold; your Warren bleeds, who both 

inspir'd 
To noble deeds, and by his actions fir'd; 4° 
What pity, heaven ! — but you who yet re- 
main 
Affect his spirit as you lov'd the man : 
Once more, and yet once more for free- 
dom strive, 



92 



AMERICAN POETRY 



To be a slave what wretch would dare 

to live? 
We too to the last drop our blood will 

drain. 
And not till then shall hated slavery reign, 
When every effort, every hope is o'er, 
And lost Columbia swells our breasts no 

more. 
Oh if that day, which heaven avert, 

must come. 
And fathers, husbands, children, meet 

their doom, so 

Let one brave onset yet that doom pre- 
cede. 
To shew the world America can bleed. 
One thund'ring volley raise the midnight 

cry. 
And one last flame send Boston to the 

sky. 
But cease, foreboding Muse, nor strive 

to see 
Dark times deriv'd by fatal destiny; 
If ever heaven befriended the distrest. 
If ever valour succour'd those opprest, 
Let America rejoice, thy standard rear. 
Let the loud trumpet animate to war : 60 
Thy guardian Genius, haste thee on thy 

way. 
To strike whole hosts with terror and 

dismay. 
Happy some land, which all for free- 
dom gave. 
Happier the men whom their own virtues 

save ; 
Thrice happy we who long attacks have 

stood. 
And swam to Liberty thro' seas of blood ; 
The time shall come when strangers rule 

no more. 
Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's 

shore ; 
When commerce shall extend her short- 

'ned wing, 
And her free freights from every climate 

bring ; "o 

When mighty towns shall flourish free 

and great, 
Vast their dominion, opulent their state; 
When one vast cultivated region teems. 
From ocean's edge to Mississippi's 

streams ; 
While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful 

shade. 
And even the meanest has no cause to 

dread ; 
Such is the life our foes with envy see. 
Such is the godlike glory to be free. 

Separately published 1775. 



THE MIDNIGHT CONSLTLTATIQN 

OR A TRIP TO BOSTON 
1 

Twelve was the hour — congenial dark- 
ness reigned. 
And no bright star a mimic day-light 

feigned — 
First, Gage we saw — a crimson chair of 

state 
Received the honour of his Honour's 

weight ; 
This man of straw the regal purple bound, 
But dullness, deepest dullness, hovered 

round. 
Next Graves, who wields the trident 

of the brine. 
The tall arch-captain of the embattled 

line. 
All gloomy sate — mumbling of flame and 

fire. 
Balls, cannon, ships, and all their damned 

attire ; 10 

Well pleased to live in never-ending hum. 
But empty as the interior of his drum. 
Hard by, Burgoyne assumes an ample 

space. 
And seemed to meditate with studious 

face, 
x\s if again he wished our world to see 
Long, dull, dry letters, writ to General 

Lee — 
Huge scrawls of words through endless 

circuits drawn 
L^nmeaning as the errand he's upon. — 
Is he to conquer — he subdue our land? — 
This buckram hero, with his lady's hand? 
By Cesars to be vanquished is a curse, 21 
But by a scribbling fop — by heaven, is 

worse ! 
Lord Piercj^ seemed to snore — but may 

the Muse 
This ill-timed snoring to the peer excuse; 
Tired was the long boj'' of his toilsome 

day. 
Full fifteen miles he fled — a tedious way; 
How could he then the dews of Somnus 

shun. 
Perhaps not used to walk — much less to 

run. 
Red-faced as suns, when sinking to re- 
pose. 
Reclined the infernal captain of the Rose, 
In fame's proud temple aiming for a 

niche, 31 

With those who find her at the cannon's 

breech ; 

^ Omitting the first 69 lines of general intro- 
duction. 



I 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



93 



Skilled to direct the cannonading shot, 
No Turkish rover half so murdering hot, 
Pleased with base vengeance on defence- 
less towns. 
His heart was malice — but his words were, 
Zounds ! 
Howe, vexed to see his starving army's 
doom, 
In prayer, besought the skies for elbow 

room — 
Small was his stock, and theirs, of heav- 
enly grace, 
Yet just enough to ask a larger place. 4o 
He cursed the brainless minister that 

planned 
His bootless errand to this hostile land, 
But, awed by Gage, his bursting wrath 

recoiled, 
And in his inmost bosom doutjly boiled. 
These, chief of all the tyrant-serving 
train. 
Exalted sate — the rest Ca pensioned clan), 
A sample of the multitude that wait. 
Pale sons of famine, at perdition's gate. 
North's friends down swarming (so our 
monarch wills), 49 

Hungry as death, from Caledonian hills ; 
Whose endless numbers if you bid me tell, 
I'll count the atoms of this globe as 

well,^ — • 
Knights, captains, 'squires — a wonder- 
working band. 
Held at small wages 'till they gain the 

land. 
Flocked pensive round — black spleen as- 
sailed their hearts, 
(The sport of plough-boys, with their 

arms and arts) 
And make them doubt (howe'er for ven- 
geance hot) 
Whether they were invincible or not. 



The clock strikes two ! — Gage smote 

upon his breast. 
And cried, — "What fate determines, must 

be best — 60 

But now attend — a counsel I impart 
That long has laid the heaviest at my 

heart — 
Three weeks — ye gods ! — nay, three long 

years it seems 
Since roast-beef I have touched except in 

dreams. 
In sleep, choice dishes to my view repair. 
Waking, I gape and champ the empty 

air. — 

. *Here are omitted lines 127-225. 



Say, is it just that I, who rule these 

bands, 
Should live on husks, like rakes in for- 
eign lands ? — 
Come, let us plan some project ere we 

sleep. 
And drink destruction to the rebel sheep. 
"On neighbouring isles uncounted cat- 
tle stray, 71 
Fat beeves and swine, an ill-defended 

prey— 
These are fit visions for my noon day 

dish. 
These, if my soldiers act as I would wish, 
In one short week should glad your maws 

and mine; 
On mutton we will sup — on roast beef 

dine." 
Shouts of applause re-echoed through 

the hall, 
And what pleased one as surely pleased 

them all ; 
Wallace was named to execute the plan, 
And thus sheep-stealing pleased them to 

a man. 80 

Now slumbers stole upon the great 

man's eye. 
His powdered foretop nodded from on 

high, 
His hds just opened to find how matters 

were, 
"Dissolve," he said, "and so dissolved ye 

are," 
Then downward sunk to slumbers dark 

and deep, — 
Each nerve relaxed — and even his guts 

asleep. 

Epilogue 

What are these strangers from a for- 
eign isle. 

That we should fear their hate or court 
their smile? — 

Pride sent them here, pride blasted in 
the bud. 

Who, if she can, will build her throne in 
blood, 90 

With slaughtered millions glut her tear- 
less eyes. 

And bid even virtue fall, that she may 
rise. 
What deep offence has fired a mon- 
arch's rage? 

What moon-struck madness seized the 
brain of Gage? 

Laughs not the soul when an imprisoned 
crew 

Afifect to pardon those they can't subdue, 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Though thrice repulsed, and hemmed up 
to their stations, 

Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclama- 
tions ! — 

Too long our patient country wears their 
chains. 

Too long our wealth all-grasping Britain 
drains. ^°° 

Why still a handmaid to that distant 
land? 

Why still subservient to their proud com- 
mand? 

Britain the bold,, the generous, and the 
brave 

Still treats our country like the meanest 
slave, 

Her haughty lords already share the prey. 

Live on our labours, and with scorn re- 

Rise, sleeper, rise, while yet the power 
remains, 

And bind their nobles and their chiefs in 
chains : 

Bent on destructive plans, they scorn our 
plea, 

'Tis our own efforts that must make us 
free— "° 

Born to contend, our lives we place at 
stake. 

And rise to conquerors by the stand we 
make. — 
The time may come when strangers 
rule no more. 

Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's 
shore. 

When commerce may extend her short- 
ened wing. 

And her rich freights from every cHmate 
bring. 

When mighty towns shall flourish free 
and great, 

Vast their dominion, opulent their state. 

When one vast cultivated region teems 

From ocean's side to Mississippi streams, 

While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful 
shade, '^' 

And even the meanest has no foe to 
dread. 
And you, who, far from Liberty de- 
tained. 

Wear out existence in some slavish land — 

Forsake those shores, a self -ejected 
throng. 

And armed for vengeance, here resent 
the wrong: 

Come to our climes, where unchained 
rivers flow. 

And loftiest groves, and boundless for- 
ests grow. 



Here the blest soil your future care de- 
mands ; 
Come, sweep the forests from these 

siiaded lands, ^30 

And the kind earth shall every toil repay. 

And harvests flourish as the groves decay. 

O heaven-born Peace, renew thy wonted 

charms — 
Far be this rancour, and this din of 

arms — 
To warring lands return, an honoured 

guest. 
And bless our crimson shore among the 

rest — 
Long may Britannia rule our hearts again, 
Rule as she ruled in George the Second's 

reign. 
May ages hence her growing grandeur 

see. 
And she be glorious — but ourselves as 

free ! ho 

Separately published, Sept., 1775 

AMERICA INDEPENDENT! 

Americans ! revenge your country's 

wrongs ; 
To you the honour of this deed belongs, 
Your arms did once this sinking land 

sustain, 
And saved those climes where Freedom 

yet must reign — 
Your bleeding soil this ardent task de- 
mands. 
Expel yon' thieves from these polluted 

lands, 
Expect no peace till haughty Britain 

yields, 
'Till humbled Britons quit your ravaged 

fields — 
Still to the charge that routed foe re- 
turns, 9 
The war still rages, and the battle burns — 
No dull debates, or tedious counsels know. 
But rush at once, embodied, on your foe; 
With hell-born spite a seven years' war 

they wage, 
The pirate Goodrich, and the ruffian 

Gage. 
Your injured country groans while yet 

they stay. 
Attend her groans, and force their hosts 

away ; 
Your mighty wrongs the tragic muse shall 

trace, 

^ Published in "Travels of the Imagination," 
1778, fiy Robert Bell, Philadelphia. The conclu- 
sion of a poem of 350 lines. 



li 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



95 



Your gallant deeds shall fire a future 

race; 
To you may kings and potentates appeal, 
You may the doom of jarring nations 

seal ; 20 

A glorious empire rises, bright and new ! 
Firm be the structure, and must rest on 

you ! — ■ 
Fame o'er the mighty pile expands her 

wings. 
Remote from princes, bishops, lords, and 

kings. 
Those fancied gods, who, famed through 

every shore. 
Mankind have fashioned, and like fools, 

adore. 
Here yet shall heaven the joys of peace 

bestow. 
While through our soil the streams of 

plenty flow, 
And o'er the main we spread the trading 

sail, 
Wafting the produce of the rural vale. 3° 

GEORGE THE THIRD'S SOLILOQUY 

What mean these dreams, and hideous 

forms that rise 
Night after night, tormenting to my 

eyes — 
No real foes these horrid shapes can be. 
But thrice as much they vex and torture 

me. 
How cursed is he — how doubly cursed 

am I — 
Who lives in pain, and yet who dares not 

die; 
To him no joy this world of Nature 

brings. 
In vain the wild rose blooms, the daisy 

springs. 
Is this a prelude to some new disgrace, 
Some baleful omen to my name and 

race ! — ^° 

It may be so — ere mighty Caesar died 
Presaging Nature felt his doom, and 

sighed ; 
A bellowing voice through midnight 

groves was heard. 
And threatening ghosts at dusk of eye 

appeared — 
Ere Brutus fell, to adverse fates a prey. 
His evil genius met him on the way. 
And so may mine ! — but who would yield 

so soon 
A prize, some luckier hour may make my 

own? 
Shame seize my crown ere such a deed 

be mine — 



No — to the last my squadrons shall com- 
bine, _ 20 

And slay my foes, while foes remain to 
slay. 

Or heaven shall grant me one successful 
day. 
Is there a robber close in Newgate 
hemmed, 

Is there a cut-throat, fettered and con- 
demned ? 

Haste, loyal slaves, to George's standard 
come. 

Attend his lectures when you hear the 
drum; 

Your chains I break — for better days pre- 
pare. 

Come out, my friends, from prison and 
from care. 

Far to the west I plan your desperate 
sway, 

There 'tis no sin to ravage, burn, and 
slay, 30 

There, without fear, your bloody aims 
pursue. 

And shew mankind what English thieves 
can do. 
That day, when first I mounted to the 
throne, 

I swore to let all foreign foes alone. 

Through love of peace to terms did I 
advance. 

And made, they say, a shameful league 
with France. 

But diflferent scenes rise horrid to my 
view, 

I charged my hosts to plunder and sub- 
due — 

At first, indeed, I thought short wars to 
wage 

And sent some jail-birds to be led by 
Gage, 40 

For 'twas but right, that those we marked 
for slaves 

Should be reduced by cowards, fools, and 
knaves ; 

Awhile directed by his feeble hand. 

Whose troops were kicked and pelted 
through the land. 

Or starved in Boston, cursed the unlucky 
hour 

They left their dungeons for that fatal 
shore. 
France aids them now, a desperate game 
I play. 

And hostile Spain will do the same, they 
say; 

My armies vanquished, and my heroes fled. 

My people murmuring, and my commerce 
dead, . 5° 



96 



AMERICAN POETRY 



My shattered navy pelted, bruised, and 

clubbed. 
My Dutchmen bullied, and my French- 
men drubbed. 
My name abhorred, my nation in disgrace, 
How should I act in such a mournful 

case! 
My hopes and joys are vanished with my 

coin. 
My ruined army, and my lost Burgoyne ! 
What shall I do — confess my labours 

vain, 
Or whet my tusks, and to the charge 

again ! 
But where's my force — my choicest 

troops are fled. 
Some thousands crippled, and a myriad 

dead — 60 

If I were owned the boldest of mankind. 
And hell with all her flames inspired my 

mind. 
Could I at once with Spain and France 

contend, 
And fight the rebels on the world's green 

end? — 
The pangs of parting I can ne'er endure, 
Yet part we rfiust, and part to meet no 

more ! 
Oh, blast this Congress, blast each up- 
start State, 
On whose commands ten thousand cap- 
tains wait; 
From various climes that dire Assembly 

came, 69 

True to their trust, as hostile to my fame, 
'Tis these, ah these, have ruined half my 

sway. 
Disgraced my arms, and led my slaves 

astray — 
Cursed be the day when first I saw the 

sun, 
Cursed be the hour when I these wars 

begun : 
The fiends of darkness then possessed my 

mind, 
And powers unfriendly to the human 

kind. 
To wasting grief, and sullen rage a prey. 
To Scotland's utmost verge I'll take my 

way, 
There with eternal storms due concert 

keep 
And while the billows rage, as fiercely 

weep — 80 

Ye highland lads, my rugged fate be- 
moan. 
Assist me with one sympathizing groan, 
For late I find the nations are my foes, 
I must submit, and that with bloody nose, 



Or, like our James, fly basely from the 

state, 
Or share, what still is worse — old 

Charles's fate. 

United States Magazine, May, 1779. 



THE BRITISH PRISON SHIPi 
Canto II 

The various horrors of tbese hulks to 
tell. 

These Prison Ships where pain and hor- 
ror dwell. 

Where death in tenfold vengeance holds 
his reign. 

And injur'd ghosts, yet unaveng'd, com- 
plain ; 

This be my task — ungenerous Britons, 
you 

Conspire to murder those you can't sub- 
due. — 
Weak as I am, I'll try my strength to- 
day 

And my best arrows at these hell-hounds 
play, 

To future years one scene of death pro- 
long. 

And hang them up to infamy, in song. 1° 
That Britain's rage should dye our 
plains with gore. 

And desolation spread through every 
shore, 

None e'er could doubt, that her ambition 
knew, 

This was to rage and disappointment due ; 

But that those monsters whom our soil 
maintain'd. 

Who first drew breath in this devoted 
land, 

Like famish'd wolves, should on their 
country prey, 

Assist its foes, and wrest our lives away, 

This shocks belief — and bids our soil dis- 
own 

Such friends, subservient to a bankrupt 
crown, 20 

By them the widow mourns her partner 
dead. 

Her mangled sons to darksome prisons 
led,. 

1 On May 25, 1780, Freneau in the ship' 
Aurora started from Philadelphia as a pas- 
senger for Santa Cruz. The next day, while 
off Cape Henlopin, the ship was captured by 
the British frigate Iris, Capt. Hawkes, and the 
crew and passengers sent to New York as pris- 
oners. Canto I of this poem deals with "The 
Capture" and Canto III with "The Hospital 
Prison Ship." 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



97 



By them — and hence my keenest sorrows 

rise, 
My friend, my guardian, my Orestes 

dies ; 
Still for that loss must wretched I com- 
plain, 
And sad Ophelia mourn her favourite 

swain. 
Ah ! come the day when from this 

bloody shore 
Fate shall remove them to return no 

more — 
To scorch'd Bahama shall the traitors go 
With grief and rage, and unremitting 

woe, 30 

On burning sands to walk their painful 

round. 
And sigh through all the solitary ground. 
Where no gay flower their haggard eyes 

shall see, 
And find no shade but from the cypress 

tree. 
So much we suffer'd from the tribe I 

hate, 
So near they shov'd me to the brink of 

fate, 
When two long months in these dark 

hulks we lay, 
Barr'd down by night, and fainting all 

the day 
In the fierce fervours of the solar beam, 
Cool'd by no breeze on Hudson's moun- 
tain-stream ; 40 
That not unsung these threescore days 

shall fall 
To black oblivion that would cover all ! — 
No masts or sails these crowded ships 

adorn, 
Dismal to view, neglected and forlorn ! 
Here, mighty ills oppress the imprison'd 

throng. 
Dull were our slumbers, and our nights 

too long — 
From morn to eve along the decks we lay 
Scorch'd into fevers by the solar ray; 
No friendly awning cast a welcome shade. 
Once was it promis'd, and was never 

made ; 5° 

No favours could these sons of death 

bestow, 
'Twas endless cursing, and continual woe : 
Immortal hatred doth their breasts en- 
gage. 
And this lost empire swells their souls 

with rage. 
Two hulks on Hudson's stormy bosom 

lie, 
Two, farther south, affront the pitying 

eye — ^ 



There, the black Scorpion at her mooring 

rides. 
There, Stromholo swings, yielding to the 

tides; 
Here, bulky Jersey fills a larger space. 
And Hunter, to all hospitals disgrace — 60 
Thou, Scorpion, fatal to thy crowded 

throng. 
Dire theme of horror and Plutonian song, 
Requir'st my lay — thy sultry decks I 

know. 
And all the torments that exist below ! 
The briny waves that Hudson's bosom 

fills 
Drain'd through her bottom in a thou- 
sand rills, 
Rotten and old, replete with sighs and 

groans, 
Scarce on the waters she sustain'd her 

bones ; 

Here, doom'd to toil, or founder in the 

tide, 69 

At the moist pumps incessantly we ply'd. 

Here, doom'd to starve, like famish'd dogs 

we tore 
The scant allowance, that our tyrants 
bore. 
Remembrance shudders at this scene 
of fears — 
Still in my view some English brute ap- 
pears, 
Some base - born Hessian slave walks 

threat'ning by. 
Some servile Scot with murder in his eye 
Still haunts my sight, as vainly they be- 
moan 
Rebellions manag'd so unlike their own! 
O may I never feel the poignant pain 
To live subjected to such fiends again, 80 
Stewards and Mates that hostile Britain 

bore. 
Cut from the gallows on their native 

shore ; 
Their ghastly looks and vengeance-beam- 
ing eyes 
Still to my view in dismal colours rise — 
O may I ne'er review these dire abodes. 
These piles for slaughter, floating on the 

floods, — 
And you, that o'er the troubled ocean go, 
Strike not your standards to this mis- 
creant foe, 
Better the greedy wave should swallow 
all, 89 

Better to meet the death-conducted ball. 
Better to sleep on ocean's deepest bed, 
At once destroy'd and number'd with the 

dead, 
Than thus to perish in the face of day 



98 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Where twice ten thousand deaths one 
death delay. 
When to the ocean dives the western 
sun, 

And the scorch'd Tories fire their evening 
gun, 

"Down, rebels, down!" the angry Scotch- 
men cry, 

"Damn'd dogs, descend, or by our broad 
swords die !" 
Hail, dark abode ! what can with thee 
compare — 

Heat, sickness, famine, death, and stag- 
nant air — _ 100 

Pandora's box, from whence all mischief 
flew, 

Here real found, torments mankind 
anew ! — 

Swift from the guarded decks we rush'd 
along. 

And vainly sought repose, so vast our 
throng : 

Three hundred wretches here, denied all 
light. 

In crowded mansions pass the infernal 
night. 

Some for a bed their tatter'd vestments 
join. 

And some on chests, and some on floors 
recline ; 

Shut from the blessings of the evening 
air, 

Pensive we lay with mingled corpses 
there, "° 

Meagre and wan, and scorch'd with heat 
below, 

We loom'd like ghosts, ere death had 
made us so — 

How could we else, where heat and hun- 
ger join'd 

Thus to debase the body and the mind. 

Where cruel thirst the parching throat 
invades. 

Dries up the man, and fits him for the 
shades. 
No waters laded from the bubbling 
spring 

To these dire ships the British monsters 
bring — 

By planks and ponderous beams com- 
pletely wall'd 

In vain for water, and in vain, I call'd — 

No drop was granted to the midnight 
prayer, _ _ "^ 

To Dives in these regions of despair !^ — 

The loathsome cask a deadly dose con- 
tains. 

Its poison circling through the languid 
veins ; 



"Here, generous Britain, generous, as you 

say. 
To my parch'd tongue one cooling drop 

convey. 
Hell has no mischief like a thirsty throat, 
Nor one tormenter like your David 

Sproat." 
Dull flew the hours, till, from the East 

display'd. 
Sweet morn dispells the horrors of the 

shade; 130 

On every side dire objects meet the sight, 
And pallid forms, and murders of the 

night. 
The dead were past their pain, the living 

groan. 
Nor dare to hope another morn their 

own; 
But what to them is morn's delightful 

ray. 
Sad and distressful as the close of day, 
O'er distant streams appears the dewy 

green. 
And leafy trees on mountain tops are 

seen. 
But they no groves nor grassy mountains 

tread, 
Mark'd for a longer journey to the dead. 
Black as the clouds that shade St. Kil- 

da's shore, 141 

Wild as the winds that round her moun- 
tains roar. 
At every post some surly vagrant stands, 
Pick'd from the British or the Irish bands. 
Some slave from Hesse, some hangman's 

son at least 
Sold and transported, like his brother 

beast — 
Some miscreant Tory, puff'd with upstart 

pride, 
Led on by hell to take the royal side; 
Dispensing, death triumphantly they stand. 
Their musquets ready to obey command; 
Wounds are their sport, as ruin is their 

aim; 151 

On their dark souls compassion has no 

claim. 

And discord only can their spirits please : 
Such were our tyrants here, and such 

were these. 

Ingratitude ! no curse like thee is found 

Throughout this jarring world's extended 

round, 
Their hearts with malice to our country 

swell 
Because in former days we us'd them 

_ well !— 
This pierces deep, too deeply wounds the, 

breast ; 



i 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



99 



We help'd them naked, friendless, and 

distrest, _ 160 

Receiv'd their vagrants with an open 

hand, 
Bestow'd them buildings, privilege, and 

land — 
Behold the change ! — when angry Britain 

rose, 
These thankless tribes became our fierc- 
est foes. 
By them devoted, plunder'd, and accurst. 
Stung by the serpents whom ourselves 

had nurs'd. 
But such a train of endless woes 

abound, 
So many mischiefs in these hulks are 

found. 
That on them all a poem to prolong 
Would swell too high the horrors of my 

song — 170 

Hunger and thirst to work our woe com- 
bine. 
And mouldy bread, and flesh of rotten 

swine, 
The mangled carcase, and the batter'd 

brain. 
The doctor's poison, and the captain's 

cane. 
The soldier's musquet, and the steward's 

debt. 
The evening shackle, and the noon-day 

threat. 
That juice destructive to the pangs of 

care 
Which Rome of old, nor Athens could 

prepare. 
Which gains the day for many a modern 

chief 
When cool reflection yields a faint re- 
lief, _ 180 
That charm, whose virtue warms the 

world beside. 
Was by these tyrants to our use denied. 
While yet they deign'd that healthy juice 

to lade 
The putrid water felt its powerful aid; 
But when refus'd — to aggravate our 

pains — 
Then fevers rag'd and revel'd through 

our veins; 
Throughout my frame I felt its deadly 

heat, 
I felt my pulse with quicker motions 

beat : 
A pallid hue o'er every face was spread. 
Unusual pains attack'd the fainting head. 
No physic here, no doctor to assist, ipi 
My name was enter'd on the sick man's 

list; 



Twelve wretches more the same dark 

symptoms took. 
And these were enter'd on the doctor's 

book; 
The loathsome Hunter was our destin'd 

place. 
The Hunter, to all hospitals disgrace; 
With soldiers sent to guard us on our 

road. 
Joyful we left the Scorpion's dire abode; 
Some tears we shed for the remaining 

crew, 
Then curs'd the hulk, and from her sides 

withdrew. 200 

Separately published, Philadelphia, 1781. 



ON THE MEMORABLE VICTORY 
OF PAUL JONES 

1 

O'er the rough main with flowing sheet 
The guardian of a numerous fleet, 

Seraphis from the Baltic came; 
A ship of less tremendous force 
Sail'd by her side the self-same course, 

Countess of Scarb'ro was her name. 



And now their native coasts appear, 
Britannia's hills their summits rear 

Above the German main ; 
Fond to suppose their dangers o'er, 
They southward coast along the shore. 

Thy waters, gentle Thames, to gain. 



Full forty guns Seraphis bore. 

And Scarb'ro's Countess twenty-four, 

Mann'd with Old England's boldest 
tars — 
What flag that rides the Gallic seas 
Shall dare attack such piles as these, 

Design'd for tumults and for wars ! 



Now from the top-mast's giddy height 
A seaman cry'd — "Four sail in sight -' 

"Approach with favouring gales," 
Pearson, resolv'd to save the fleet. 
Stood off to sea these ships to meet, 

And closely brac'd his shivering sails. 



With him advanc'd the Countess bold. 
Like a black tar in wars grown old; 
And now these floating piles drew nigh ; 



100 



AMERICAN POETRY 



But', muse, unfold what chief of fame 
In th' other warlike squadron came, 
Whose standards at his mast head fly. 

30 



"Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led 
As bold a crew as ever bled 

Upon the sky-surrounded main ; 
The standards of the Western World 
Were to the willing winds unfurl'd, 

Denying Britain's tyrant reign. 



The Good Man Richard led the line; 
The Alliance next: with these combine 

The Gallic ship they Pallas call: 
The Vengeance, arm'd with sword and 
flame, 40 

These to attack the Britons came — 

But two accomplish'd all. 



Now Phoebus sought his pearly bed : 
But who can tell the scenes of dread, 

The horrors of that fatal night ! 
Close up these floating castles came ; 
The Good Man Richard bursts in flame ; 

Seraphis trembled at the sight. 



She felt the fury of her ball, _ 49 

Down, prostrate down, the Britons fall; 

The decks were strew'd with slain : 
Jones to the foe his vessel lash'd ; 
And, while the black artillery flash'd, 

Loud thunders shook the main. 

10 

Alas ! that mortals should employ 
Such murdering engines, to destroy 

That frame by heav'n so nicely join'd; 
Alas ! that e'er the god decreed. 
That brother should by brother bleed, 59 

And pour'd such madness in the mind. 

11 

But thou, brave Jones, no blame shalt 

bear; 
The rights of men demand thy care: 

For these you dare the greedy waves — 
No tyrant on destruction bent 
Has planned thy conquests — thou art 
sent 
To humble tyrants and their slaves. 



12 



n 



See ! — dread Seraphis flames again — 

And art thorn, Jones, among the slain, . 

And sunk to Neptune's caves below — mi 
He lives — though crowds around him fall.Ti 
Still he, unhurt, survives them all; 7i 

Almost alone he fights the foe. 



13 



* 



And can thy ship these strokes sustain? 
Behold thy brave companions slain. 

All clasp'd in ocean's dark embrace. 
Strike, or be sunk! — the Briton cries — 
Sink, if you can ! — the chief replies. 

Fierce lightnings blazing in his face. 

14 

Then to the side three guns he drew, 

(Almost deserted by his crew) Sol 

And charg'd them deep with woe 

By Pearson's flash he aim'd the balls; 

His main-mast totters — down it falls- 
Tremendous was the blow. 

15 

Pearson as yet disdain'd to yield, 
But scarce his secret fears conceal' d, 

And thus was heard to cry — 
"With hell, not mortals, I contend ; 
What art thou — human, or a fiend. 

That dost my force defy? 9°, 

16 

"Return, my lads, the fight renew !" 
So call'd bold Pearson to his crew ; 

But call'd, alas ! in vain ; 
Some on the decks lay maim'd and dead; 
Some to their deep recesses fled. 

And more were bury'd in the main 

17 

Distress'd, forsaken, and alone, 

He haul'd his tatter'd standard down, 

And yielded to his gallant foe; 
Bold Pallas soon the Countess took, 100 
Thus both their haughty colours struck, 

Confessing what the brave can do. 

18 

But Jones, too dearly didst thou buy 
These ships possest so gloriously. 

Too many deaths disgrac'd the fray : 
Thy barque that bore the conquering 

flame. 
That the proud Briton overcame, 

Even she forsook thee on thy way. 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



101 



19 

For when the morn began to shine, 
Fatal to her, the ocean brine "° 

Pour'd through each spacious wound; 
Quick in the deep she disappear'd, 
But Jones to friendly Belgia steer'd, 

With conquest and with glory crown'd. 

20 

Go on, great man, to daunt the foe, 
And bid the haughty Britons know 

They to our Thirteen Stars shall bend ; 
The Stars that veil'd in dark attire. 
Long glimmer'd with a feeble fire, 

But radiant now ascend; 120 

21 
Bend to the Stars that flaming rise 
In western, not in eastern, skies, 

Fair Freedom's reign restor'd. 
So when the magi, come from far, 
Beheld the God-attending Star, 

They trembled and ador'd. 

Freeman's Journal, Aug. 8, 1781. 



Nor may she ride on oceans more serene 
Than Greece, triumphant, found that 
stormy day, 

When angry Pallas spent her rage no 

more 

On vanquished Ilium, then in ashes 

laid. 

But turned it on the barque that Ajax 

bore, ^9 

Avenging thus her temple and the maid. 

When tossed upon the vast Atlantic main 
Your groaning ship the southern gales 
shall tear. 
How will your sailors sweat, and you 
complain 
And meanly howl to Jove, that will not 
hear! 

But if, at last, upon some winding shore 
A prey to hungry cormorants you lie, 

A wanton goat to every stormy power, 
And a fat lamb, in sacrifice, shall die. 

Freeman's Journal, July 10, 1782. 



ARNOLD'S DEPARTURE 1 

"Mala soluta navis exit alite 
Ferens olentem Maviunt," etc. 

With evil omens from the harbour sails 
The ill-fated barque that worthless Ar- 
nold bears, — 
God of the southern winds, call up the 
gales, 
And whistle in rude fury round his 
ears. 

With horrid waves insult his vessel's 

sides. 
And may the east wind on a leeward 

shore 
Her cables part while she in tumult rides. 
And shatter into shivers every oar. 

And let the north wind to her ruin haste. 
With such a rage, as when from moun- 
tains high 1° 
He rends the tall oak with his weighty 
_ blast, 
■ And ruin spreads where'er his forces fly. 

!^^ay not one friendly star that night be 
seen; 
No moon, attendant, dart one glimmer- 
ing ray, 

^ Written in December, 1781, upon the de- 
parture of General Arnold fronj New York, 



PROLOGUE 

To A Theatrical Entertainment 2 in 
Philadelphia 

Wars, cruel wars, and hostile Britain's 

rage 
Have banished long the pleasures of the 

stage ; 
From the gay painted scene compelled to 

part, 
(Forgot the melting language of the 

heart) 
Constrained to shun the bold theatric 

show. 
To act long tragedies of real woe, 
Heroes, once more attend the comic 

muse; 
Forget our failings, and our faults ex- 
cuse. 
In that fine language is our fable drest 
Which still unrivall'd, reigns o'er all the 

rest ; 1° 

Of foreign courts the study and the pride, 
Who to know this abandon all beside ; 
Bold, though polite, and ever sure to 

please ; 
Correct with grace, and elegant with ease; 

^ This was a gala performance before Gen- 
eral Washington and the French Minister, 
January 2, 1782. The play was Eugenfe, by 
Beaumarchais, followed by a farce and a spec- 
tacular illumination. 



102 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Soft from the lips its easy accents roll, 
Form'd to delight and captivate the soul: 
In this Eugenia tells her easy lay, 
The brilliant work of courtly Beaumar- 

chais : 
In this Racine, Voltaire, and Boileau 

sung, 19 

The noblest poets in the noblest tongue. 
If the soft story in our play express'd 
Can give a moment's pleasure to your 

breast, 
To you. Great Sir,^ vi^e must be proud to 

say 
That moment's pleasure shall our pains 

repay : 
Return'd from conquest and from glori- 
ous toils. 
From armies captur'd and unnumber'd 

spoils ; 
Ere yet again, with generous France al- 
lied, 
You rush to battle, humbHng British 

pride; 
While arts of peace your kind protection 

share, 
O let the Muses claim an equal care. 3° 
You bade us first our future greatness 

see, 
Inspir'd by you, we languish'd to be free; 
Even here where Freedom lately sat dis- 

trest, 
See, a new Athens rising in the west ! 
Fair science blooms, where tyrants 

reigned before, 
Red war, reluctant, leaves our ravag'd 

shore — 
Illustrious heroes, may you live to see 
These new republics powerful, great, and 

free; 
Peace, heaven born peace, o'er spacious 

regions spread. 
While discord, sinking, veils her ghastly 

head. 40 

Freeman's Journal, Jan. 9, 1782. 



EPIGRAM 

Occasioned by the title of Mr. Riving- 

ton's 2 New York Royal Gazette, being 

scarcely legible. 

Says Satan to Jemmy, "I hold you a bet 

That you mean to abandon our Royal 

Gazette, 

^ Addressed to his excellency, General Wash- 
ington. 

^ Royal printer to his Britannic majesty while 
his forces held the city of New York, 1776, 
to November 25, 1783. (Author's Note.) 



Or, between you and me, you would man- 
age things better 

Than the Title to print on so sneaking a 
letter." 

"Now being connected so long in the art 
It would not be prudent at present to part; 
And people, perhaps, would be fright- 

en'd, and fret 
If the devil alone carried on the Ga- 
zette." 

Says Jemmy to Satan (by the way of a 
wipe), 

"Who gives me the matter should furnish 
the type) ; i? 

And why you find fault, I can scarcely 
divine. 

For the types, like the printer, are cer- 
tainly thine. 

" 'Tis yours to deceive with the semblance 
of truth. 

Thou friend of my age, and thou guide 
of my youth ! 

But, to prosper, pray send me some fur- 
ther supplies, 

A sett of new types, and a sett of new 
lies." 

Freeman's Journal, Feb. 13, 1782. 



A PROPHECY 

When a certain great king, whose initial 

is G., 
Shall force stamps upon paper, and folks 

to drink tea; 
When these folks burn his tea, and stampt 

paper, like stubble. 
You may guess that this king is then 

coming to trouble. 
But when a petition he treads under his 

feet. 
And sends over the ocean an army and 

fleet; 
When that army, half-starved, and fran- 
tic with rage. 
Shall be coop'd up with a leader whos; 

name rhymes to cage. 
When that leader goes home, dejected 

and sad. 
You may then be assur'd the king's pros^ 

pects are bad : lo 

But when B and C with their armies are 

taken. 
This king will do well if he saves his 

own bacon. 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



103 



In the year seventeen hundred and eighty 

and two, 
A stroke he shall get that will make him 

look blue; 
In the years eighty-three, eighty-four, 

eighty-five. 
You hardly shall know that the king is 

alive; 
In the year eighty-six the affair will be 

over. 
And he shall eat turnips that grow in 

Hanover. 
The face of the lion shall then become 

pale. 
He shall yield fifteen teeth, and be 

sheer'd of his tail. 20 

O king, my dear king, you shall be very 

sore, 
The Stars and the Lilly shall run you on 

shore. 
And your lion shall growl, but never bite 

more. 
Freeman's Journal, March 27, 1782. 

THE POLITICAL BALANCE 

Or, The Fates of Britain and America 
Compared 



As Jove the Olympian (who both I and 

you know. 
Was brother to Neptune, and husband to 

Juno) 
Was lately reviewing his papers of state, 
He happen'd to light on the records of 

Fate: 

In Alphabet order this volume was writ- 
ten — 

So he open'd at B, for the article Brit- 
ain — 

She struggles so well, said the god, I will 
see 

What the sisters in Pluto's dominions 
decree. 

And first, on the top of a column he read 
"Of a king with a mighty soft place in his 

head, 10 

Who should join in his temper the ass 

and the mule, 
The third of his name, and by far the 
, worst fool : 

"His reign shall be famous for multipli- 
cation. 

The sire and the king of a whelp genera- 
tion : 



But such is the will and the purpose of 

fate, 
For each child he begets he shall forfeit 

a State : 

"In the course of events, he shall find to 

his cost 
That he cannot regain what he foolishly 

lost; 
Of the nations around he shall be the 

derision. 
And know by experience the rule of 

Division." 20 

So Jupiter read — a god of first rank — 
And still had read on — but he came to a 

blank : 
For the Fates had neglected the rest to 

reveal— 
They either forgot it, or chose to conceal : 

When a leaf is torn out, or a blot on a 

page 
That pleases our fancy, we fly in a rage — 
So, curious to know what the Fates would 

say next, 
No wonder if Jove, disappointed, was 

vext. 

But still as true genius not frequently 

fails, 
He glanced at the Virgin, and thought of 

the Scales; 3° 

And said, "To determine the will of the 

Fates, 
One scale shall weigh Britain, the other 

the States." 

Then turning to Vulcan, his maker of 
thunder, 

Said he, "My dear Vulcan, I pray you 
look yonder, 

Those creatures are tearing each other 
to pieces. 

And, instead of abating, the carnage in- 
creases. 

"Now as you are blacksmith, and lusty- 
stout ham-eater, 

You must make me a globe of a shorter 
diameter ; 

The world in abridgment, and just as it 
stands 

With all its proportions of waters and 
lands ; " 4° 

"But its various divisions must so be de- 
signed, 

That I can unhinge it whene'er I've a 
mind — 



104 



AMERICAN POETRY 



How else should I know what the por- 
tions will weigh, 
Or which of the combatants carry the 

day?" 

Old Vulcan complied, (We've no reason 
to doubt it) 

So he put on his apron and strait went 
about it — 

Made center, and circles as round as a 
pancake, 

And here the Pacific, and there the At- 
lantic. 

At length, to discourage all stupid pre- 
tensions, 

Jove looked at the globe, and approved 
its dimensions, so 

And cried in a transport — "Why what 
have we here ! 

Friend Vulcan, it is a most beautiful 
sphere ! 

"Now while I am busy in taking apart 

This globe that is formed with such ex- 
quisite art. 

Go, Hermes, to Libra, (you're one of her 
gallants) 

And ask, in my name, for the loan of 
her balance." 

Away posted Hermes, as swift as the 
gales, 

And as swiftly returned with the ponder- 
ous Scales, 

And hung them aloft to a beam in the 
air. 

So equally poised, they had turn'd with 
a hair. 60 

Now Jove to Columbia his shoulders ap- 
plied. 

But aiming to lift her, his strength she 
defied^ 

Then, turning about to their godships, he 
says — 

"A body so vast is not easy to raise; 

"But if you assist me, I still have a notion 
Our forces, united, can put her in motion, 
And swing her aloft, (though alone I 

might fail) 
And place her, in spite of her bulk, in 

our scale; 

"If six years together the Congress have 

strove, 
And more than divided the empire with 

Jove; 70 



With a Jove like myself, who am nine 

times as great, 
You can join, like their soldiers, to heave 

up this weight." 

So to it they went, with handspikes and 
levers. 

And upward she sprung, with her moun- 
tains and rivers ! 

Rocks, cities, and islands, deep waters and 
shallows, 

Ships, armies, and forests, high heads and 
fine fellows : 

"Stick to it !" cries Jove, "now heave one 

and all ! 
At least we are lifting 'one-eighth of the 

ball !' 
If backward she tumbles — then trouble 

begins. 
And then have a care, my dear boys, of 

your shins !" 80 

When gods are determined what project 

can fail? 
So they gave a hard shove, and she 

mounted the scale ; 
Suspended aloft, Jove viewed her with 

awe — 
And the gods, for their pay, had a hearty 

— huzza ! 

But Neptune bawled out — "Why Jove 
you're a noddy, 

Is Britain sufficient to poise that vast 
body? 

'Tis nonsense such castles to build in the 
air — 

As well might an oyster with Britain com- 
pare." 

"Away to your waters, you blustering 

bully." 
Said Jove, "Or I'll make you repent of 

your folly, 90 

Is Jupiter, Sir, to be tutored by you? — 
Get out of my sight, for I know what to 

do!" 

Then searching abcKit with his fingers for 

Britain, 
Thought he, "this same island I cannot 

well hit on ; 
The devil take him who first called her 

the Great : 
If she was — she is vastly diminish'd of 

late !" 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



105 



Like a man that is searching his thigh for 

a flea, 
He peep'd and he fumhl'd, but nothing 

could see; 
At last he exclaimed — "I am surely upon 

it— 
"I think I have hold of a Highlander's 

bonnet." loo 

But finding his error, he said with a sigh, 
"This bonnet is only the island of Skie!" 
So away to his namesake the planet he 

goes, 
And borrow'd two moons to hang on his 

nose. 

Through these, as through glasses, he 

saw her quite clear, 
And in raptures cried out — "I have found 

her — she's here ! 
If this be not Britain, then call me an 

ass — 
She looks like a gem in an ocean of glass. 

"But, faith, she's so small I must mind 

how I shake her ; 
In a box I'll inclose her, for fear I 

should break her; 
Though a god, I must suffer for being 

aggressor, "o 

Since scorpions, and vipers, and hornets 

possess her; 

"The white cliffs of Albion I think I 

descry — 
And the hills of Plinlimmon appear 

rather nigh — 
But, Vulcan, inform me what creatures 

are these, 
That smell so of onions, and garlick, and 

cheese?" 

Old Vulcan replied — "Odds splutter a 

nails ! 
Why, these are the Welch, and the country 

is Wales ! 
When Taffy is vext, no devil is ruder — 
Take care how you trouble the offspring 

of Tudor! 120 

"On the crags of the mountains hur living 

hur seeks, 
Hur country is planted with garlick and 

leeks ; 
So great is hur choler, beware how you 

teaze hur. 
For these are the Britons — unconquered 

by Caesar." 



Jove peep'd thro' his moons, and exam- 
in'd their features. 

And said, "By my truth, they are wonder- 
ful creatures, 

"The beards are so long that encircle their 
throats. 

That (unless they are Welchmen) I swear 
they are goats : 

"But now, my dear Juno, pray give me 

my mittens, 
(These insects I am going to handle are 

Britons) 
I'll draw up their isle with a finger and 

thumb. 
As the doctor extracts an old tooth from 

the gum." 

Then he raised her aloft — but to shorten 

our tale, 
She looked like a clo-d in the opposite 

scale — 130 

Britannia so small, and Columbia so 

large — 
A ship of first rate, and a ferryman's 

barge ! 

Cried Pallas to Vulcan, "Why, Jove's in 

a dream — 
Observe how he watches the turn of the 

beam! 
Was ever a mountain outweighed by a 

grain? 
Or what is a drop when compared to the 

main?" 

But Momus alledg'd — "In my humble 

opinion, 
You should add to Great-Britain her 

foreign dominion, 
When this is appended; perhaps she will 

rise, 
And equal her rival in weight and in 

size." 140 

"Alas! (said the monarch), your project 

is vain. 
But little is left of her foreign domain ; 
And, scattered about in the liquid expanse. 
That little is left to the mercy of France; 

"However, we'll lift them, and give her 

fair play" — 
And soon in the scale with their mistress 

they lay; 
But the gods were confounded and struck 

with surprise, 
And Vulcan could hardly believe his own 

eyes ! 



106 



AMERICAN POETRY 



For (such was the purpose and guidance 
of fate) 

Her foreign dominions diminish'd her 
weight — - 'SO 

By which it appeared, to Britain's dis- 
aster, 

Her foreign possessions were changing 
their master. 

Then, as he replac'd them, said Jove with 

a smile — 
"Columbia shall never be rul'd by an 

isle — 
But vapours and darkness around her 

may rise. 
And tempests conceal her awhile from 

our eyes; 

"So locusts in Egypt their squadrons dis- 
play. 

And rising, disfigure the face of the day; 

So the moon, at her full, has a frequent 
eclipse, ^59 

And the sun in the ocean diurnally dips. 

"Then cease your endeavours, ye vermin 
of Britain — 

(And here, in derision, their island he 
spit on) 

'Tis madness to seek what you never can 
find. 

Or to think of uniting what nature dis- 
join' d; 

"But still you may flutter awhile with 

your wings, 
And spit out your venom and brandish 

your stings : 
Your hearts are as black, and as bitter 

as gall, 
A curse to mankind — and a blot on the 

Ball." 

Freeman's Journal, April 3, 1782. 

A NEWS-MAN'S ADDRESS i 

What tempests gloom'd the by-past year — 

What dismal prospects then arose ! 
Scarce at your doors I dar'd appear. 
So many were our griefs and woes : 
But time at length has chang'd the 

scene. 
Our prospects, now, are more serene. 

^ Published as a broadside in 1784 with the 
title "New Year Verses," for those who carry 
the Pennsylvania Gazette. To the Customers. 
January 1, 1784. 



Bad news we brought you every day, 

Your seamen slain, your ships on shore, 

The army -fretting for their pay — 9 

('Twas well they had not fretted more!) 

'Twas wrong indeed-to wear out shoes, 

To bring you nothing but bad news. 

Now let's be joyful for the change — 

The folks that guard the English throne 
Have given us ample room to range. 
And more, perhaps, than was their own; 
To western lakes they stretch our 

bounds. 
And yield the Indian hunting grounds. 

But pray read on another year, ^9 

Remain the humble newsman's friend ; 
And he'll engage to let you hear 

What Europe's princes next intend. — 
Even now their brains are all at work 
To rouse the Russian on the Turk. 



Well — if they fight, then fight they must, 
They are a strange contentious breed; 
One good effect will be, I trust. 
The more are hill'd, the more you'll 

read; 
The past experience clearly shews, ^9 
That Wrangling is the Life of News. 

1784. 



A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS 2 

Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone, 

Another year comes hastening on 

To quit us in its turn : 

With outspread wings and running glass 

Thus Time's deluding seasons pass. 

And leave mankind to mourn. 

But strains like this add grief to grief; — 
We are the lads that give rehef 
With sprightly wit and merry lay : 
Our various page to all imparts 1° 

Amusement fit for social hearts. 
And drives the monster, spleen, away. 

Abroad our leaves of knowledge fly. 
And twice a week they live and die; 
Short seasons of repose ! 
Fair to your view our toils display 
The monarch's aim, what patriots say. 
Or sons of art disclose : 

-Written January 1, 1786, for the carriers, 
of the Charleston Columbian Herald. 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



107 



Whate'er the barque of commerce brings 
From sister States, or foreign kings, 20 
No atom we conceal : 
All Europe's prints we hourly drain, 
All Asia's news our leaves contain, 
And round our world we deal. 

If falsehoods sometimes prompt your 

fears. 
And horrid news from proud Algiers, 
That gives our tars such pain ; 
Remember all must have their share. 
And all the world was made for care, 
The monarch and the swain. 3° 

If British isles (that once were free, 

In Indian seas, to you and me) 

All entrance still restrain. 

Why let them starve with all their host 

When British pride gives up the ghost. 

And courts our aid in vain. 

We fondly hope some future year 
Will all our clouded prospects clear, 
And commerce stretch her wings ; 
New tracks of trade new wealth dis- 
close, 40 
While round the globe our standard goes 
In spite of growling kings. 

Materials thus together drawn 

To tell you how the world goes on 

May surely claim regard; 

One simple word we mean to say, 

This is otir jovial New Year's day, 

And now, our toils reward. 



1786. 



TO SIR TOBY 



A sugar Planter in the interior parts of 

Jamaica, near the City of San Jago 

de la Vega, (Spanish Town) 1784. 

"The motions of his spirit are black as night. 
And his affections dark as Erebus." 

— Shakespeare. 

If there exists a hell — the case is clear — 
Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here: 
Here are no blazing brimstone lakes — 'tis 

true; 
But kindled Rum too often burns as blue; 
In which some fiend, whom nature must 

detest, 
Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor 

Cud joe's breast. 
Here whips on whips excite perpetual 

fears. 
And mingled bowlings vibrate on my ears : 



Here nature's plagues abound to fret and 
teaze, 

Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centi- 
pees — 10 

No art, no care escapes the busy lash; 

All have their dues — and all are paid in 
cash — 

The eternal driver keeps a steady eye 

On a black herd, who would his venge- 
ance fly. 

But chained, imprisoned, on a burning 
soil. 

For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil ! 

The lengthy cart-whip guards this mon- 
ster's reign — 

And cracks, like pistols, from the fields 
of cane. 
Ye powers ! who formed these wretched 
tribes, relate, 

What had they done, to merit such a 
fate ! 20 

Why were they brought from Eboe's 
sultry waste, 

To see that plenty which they must not 
taste — 

Food, which they cannot buy, and dare 
not steal ; 

Yams and potatoes — many a scanty meal ! 
One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's 
fears. 

One to the windmill nails him by the 
ears; 

One keeps his slave in darkened dens, 
unfed. 

One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's 
dead : 

This, from a tree suspends him by the 
thumbs. 

That, from his table grudges even the 
crumbs ! 3° 

O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of fe- 
males go. 

Each with her gourd, her infant, and her 
hoe; 

Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here, 

Driven by a devil, whom men call over- 
seer — 

In chains, twelve wretches to their labours 
haste ; 

Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars 
graced ! — 
Are such the fruits that spring from 
vast domains? 

Is wealth, thus got. Sir Toby, worth your 
pains ! — 

Who would your wealth on terms, like 
these, possess. 

Where all we see is pregnant with dis- 
tress — 40 



108 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Angola's natives scourged by ruffian 

hands, 
And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign 

lands. 
Talk not of blossoms, and your endless 

spring; 
What joy, what smile, can scenes of mis- 
ery bring? — 
Though Nature, here, has every blessing 

spread, 
Poor is the labourer — and how meanly 

fed!— 
Here Stygian paintings light and shade 

renew. 
Pictures of hell, that Virgil's pencil drew : 
Here, surly Charons make their annual 

trip. 
And giiosts arrive in every Guinea ship, ~o 
To find what beasts these western isles 

afford, 
Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords : — 
Here, they, of stuff determined to be 

free, 
Must climb the rude cliffs of the Ligu- 

anee; 
Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste re- 
pair, 
And hardly safe from brother traitors 

there. 

1784. National Gazette, July 21, 1792. 

THE PROGRESS OF BALLOONS 

"Perdomita tellus, tmnida cesserunt freta, 
Inferna nostras regna sensere impeUis; 
Immune ccvlum est, dignus Alcidce labor. 
In alta mundi spatia sublimes feremur." 

— Senec. Herc. Furens. 

Assist me, ye muses, (whose harps are 

in tune) 
To tell of the flight of the gallant balloon ! 
As high as my subject permit me to soar 
To heights unattempted, unthought of be- 
fore, 
Ye grave learned Doctors, whose trade is 

to sigh. 
Who labour to chalk out a road to the 

sky. 
Improve on your plans — or I'll venture to 

say, 
A chymist, of Paris, will show us the way. 
The earth on its surface has all been sur- 

vey'd. 
The sea has been travell'd — and deep in 

the shade 'o 

The kingdom of Pluto has heard us at 

work. 
When we dig for his metals wherever 

they lurk. 



But who would have thought that inven- 
tion could rise 

To find out a method to soar to the skies. 

And pierce the bright regions, which ages 
assign'd 

To spirits unbodied, and flights of the 
mind. 

Let the gods of Olympus their revels pre- 
pare — 

By the aid of some pounds of inflammable 
air 

We'll visit them soon — and forsake this 
dull ball 

With coat, shoes and stockings, fat car- 
case and all ! ^o 

How France is distinguish'd in Louis's 
reign ! 

What cannot her genius and courage at- 
tain? 

Thro'out the wide world have her arms 
found the way. 

And art to the stars is extending hei 
sway. 

At sea let the British their neighbours 
defy — 

The French shall have frigates to trav- 
erse the sky. 

In this navigation more fortunate prove. 

And cruise at their ease in the climates 
above. 

If the English should venture to sea with 
their fleet, 

A host of balloons in a trice they shall 
meet. 3° 

The French from the zenith their wings 
shall display, 

And souse on these sea-dogs and bear 
them away. 
Ye sages, who travel on mighty de- 
signs. 

To measure meridians and parallel lines — 

The task being tedious — take heed, if you 
please — 

Construct a balloon — and you'll do it with 
ease. 

And ye who the heav'n's broad concave 
survey. 

And, aided by glasses, its secrets betray. 

Who gaze, the night through, at the won- 
derful scene. 

Yet still are complaining of vapours be- 
tween, 4° 

Ah, seize the conveyance and fearlessly rise 

To peep at the lanthorns that light up the 
skies. 

And floating above, on our ocean of air, 

Inform us, by letter, what people are 
there. 

In Saturn, advise us if snow ever melts. 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



109 



And what are the uses of Jupiter's belts; 
(Mars being willing) pray send us word, 

greeting, 
If his people are fonder of fighting than 

eating. 
That Venus has horns we've no reason to 

doubt, 
(I forget what they call him who first 

found it out) so 

And you'll find, I'm afraid, if you venture 

too near. 
That the spirits of cuckolds inhabit her 

sphere. 
Our folks of good morals it wofully 

grieves. 
That Mercury's people are villains and 

thieves. 
You'll see how it is — but I'll venture to 

shew 
For a dozen among them, twelve dozens 

below. 
From long observation one proof may be 

had 
That the men in the moon are incurably 

mad; 
However, compare us, and if they exceed 
They must be surprizingly crazy indeed. 6° 
But now, to have done with our planets 

and moons — 
Come, grant me a patent for making bal- 
loons — 
For I find that the time is approaching — 

the day 
When horses shall fail, and the horsemen 

decay. 
Post riders, at present (call'd Centaurs of 

old) 
Who brave all the seasons, hot weather 

and cold. 
In future shall leave their dull poneys be- 
hind 
And travel, like ghosts, on the wings of 

the wind. 
The stagemen, whose gallopers scarce 

have the power 
Through the dirt to convey you ten miles 

in an hour, 7o 

When advanc'd to balloons shall so furi- 
ously drive 
You'll hardly know whether you're dead 

or alive. 
The man who at Boston sets out with the 

sun, 
If the wind should be fair, may be with 

us at one, 
At Gunpowder Ferry drink whiskey at 

three 
And at six be at Edentown, ready for 

tea. 



(The machine shall be order'd, we hardly 

need say. 
To travel in darkness as well as by day) 
At Charleston by ten he for sleep shall 

prepare, 
And by twelve the next day be the devil 

knows where. 80 

When the ladies grow sick of the city in 

June, 
What a jaunt they shall have in the flying 

balloon ! 
Whole mornings shall see them at toilets 

preparing. 
And forty miles high be their afternoon's 

airing. 
Yet more with its fitness for commerce 

I'm struck; 
What loads of tobacco shall fly from 

Kentuck, 
What packs of best beaver — bar-iron and 

pig. 
What budgets of leather from Conoco- 

cheague ! 
If Britain should ever disturb us again, 
(As they threaten to do in the next 

George's reign) 90 

No doubt they will play us a set of new 

tunes. 
And pepper us well from their fighting 

balloons. 
To market the farmers shall shortly repair 
With their hogs and potatoes, wholesale, 

thro' the air. 
Skim over the water as light as a feather. 
Themselves and their turkies conversing 

together. 
Such wonders as these from balloons 

shall arise — 
And the giants of old, that assaulted the 

skies 
With their Ossa on Pelion, shall freely 

confess 
That all they attempted was nothing to 

this. 100 

Freeman's Journal, Dec. 22, 1784. 

LITERARY IMPORTATION 

However we wrangled with Britain awhile 
We think of her now in a different stile, 
And many fine things we receive from 
her isle ; 
Among all the rest, 
Some demon possessed 
Our dealers in knowledge and sellers of 

sense 
To have a good bishop imported from 
thence. 



110 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The words of Sam Chandler were thought 

to be vain, 
When he argued so often and proved it 

so plain 
"That Satan must flourish till bishops 

should reign :" i" 

Though he went to the wall 
With his project and all. 
Another bold Sammy, in bishop's array, 
Has got something more than his pains 

for his pay. 

It seems we had spirit to humble a throne. 
Have genius for science inferior to none, 
But hardly encourage a plant of our own : 
Ha college be planned, 
'Tis all at a stand 
'Till to Europe we send at a shameful 
expense, ~° 

To send us a book-worm to teach us some 
sense. 



And planted here the guardian shade, 
And sent soft waters murmuring by; lo 
Thus quietly thy summer goes. 
Thy days declining to repose. 

Smit with those charms, that must decay, 

I grieve to see your future doom; 

They died — nor were those flowers more 
gay. 

The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; 
Unpitying frost, and iVutumn's power 
Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 

From morning suns and evening dews 
At first thy little being came : -" 

If nothing once, you nothing lose, 
For when you die you are the same ; 
The space between, is but an hour. 
The frail duration of a flower. 

Freeman's Journal, Aug. 2, 1786. 



Can we never be thought to have learning 

or grace 
Unless it be brought from that horrible 

place 
Where tyranny reigns with her impudent 
face; 
And popes and pretenders, 
And sly faith-defenders 
Have ever been hostile to reason and wit. 
Enslaving a world that shall conquer 
them yet. 

'Tis a folly to fret at the picture I draw: 
And I say what was said by a Doctor 
Magraw ; 3° 

"li they give us their Bishops, they'll 
give us their law." 
How that will agree 
With such people as we, 
Let us leave to the learned to reflect on 

awhile. 
And say what they think in a handsomer 
stile. 

In "Poems," 1786. 



MAY TO APRIL 

Without your showers, I breed no flowers. 
Each field a barren waste appears ; 

If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep. 
They take such pleasure in your tears. 

As your deca}' made room for May, 
So I must part with all that's mine : 

My balmy breeze, my blooming trees 
To torrid suns their sweets resign ! 

O'er April dead, my shades I spread : 
To her I owe my dress so gay — lo 

Of daughters three, it falls on me 
To close our triumphs on one day: 

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes ; 

Month after month must find its doom : 
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring, 

And summer dances on her tomb ! 

Freeman's Journal, April 11, 17C7. 



THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE 

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 
Hid in this silent, dull retreat. 
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow. 
Unseen thy little branches greet : 

No roving foot shall crush thee here, 
No busy hand provoke a tear. 

By Nature's self in white arrayed, 
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye. 



THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND 

In spite of all the learned have said, 

I still my old opinion keep; 
The posture, that we give the dead. 

Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 

Not so the ancients of these lands — 
The Indian, when from life released, 

Again is seated with his friends. 
And shares again the joyous feast. 



I 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



111 



His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 
And venison, for a journey dressed, lo 

Bespeak the nature of the soul. 
Activity, that knows no rest. 

Hij bow, for action ready bent, 
And arrows, with a head of stone, 

Can only mean that life is spent, 
And not the old ideas gone. 

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way. 
No fraud upon the dead commit — 

Observe the swelling turf, and say 
They do not lie, but here they sit. 20 

Here still a lofty rock remains. 
On which the curious eye may trace 

(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) 
The fancies of a ruder race. 

Here still an aged elm aspires. 

Beneath whose far-projecting shade 

(And which the shepherd still admires) 
The children of the forest played ! 

There oft a restless Indian queen 

(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) 30 

And many a barbarous form is seen 
To chide the man that lingers there. 

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews; 

In habit for the chase arrayed. 
The hunter still the deer pursues. 

The hunter and the deer, a shade ! 

And long shall timorous fancy see 
The painted chief, and pointed spear. 

And Reason's self shall bow the knee 
To shadows and delusions here. 40 

1788. 

ON THE PROSPECT OF A REVO- 
LUTION IN FRANCE 

"Now, at the feast they plan the fall of Troy; 
The stern debate Atrides hears with joy." 

— HoM. Odys. 

Borne on the wings of time another year 
Sprung from the past, begins its proud 

career : 
From that bright spark which first illumed 

these lands, 
See Europe kindling, as the blaze expands. 
Each gloomy tyrant, sworn to chain the 

mind, 
Presumes no more to trample on mankind : 
Even potent Louis trembles on his throne. 
The generous prince who made our cause 

his own. 



More equal rights his injured subjects 

claim. 
No more a country's strength — that coun- 
try's shame ; 1° 
Fame starts astonished at such prizes 

won. 
And rashness wonders how the work was 

done. 
Flushed with new life, and brightening 

at the view. 
Genius, triumphant, moulds the world 

anew; 
To these far climes in swift succession 

moves 
Each art that Reason owns and sense ap- 
proves. 
What though his age is bounded to a 

span 
Time sheds a conscious dignity on man, 
Some happier breath his rising passion 

swells, 
Some kinder genius his bold arm impels, 20 
Dull superstition from the world retires, 
Disheartened zealots haste to quench their 

fires; 
One equal rule o'er twelve vast States 

extends,! 
Europe and Asia join to be our friends. 
Our active flag in every clime displayed 
Counts stars on colours that shall never 

fade; 
A far famed chief o'er this vast whole 

presides 
Whose motto Honor is — whom Virtue 

guides 
His walk forsaken in Virginia's groves 
Applauding thousands bow where'er He 

moves, 30 

Who laid the basis of this Empire sure 
Where public faith should public peace 

secure. 

Still may she rise, exalted in her arms, 

And boast* to every age her patriot names, 

To distant climes extend her gentle sway. 

While choice — not force — bids every heart 

obey; 
Ne'er may she fail when Liberty implores. 
Now want true valour to defend her 

shores, 
'Till Europe, humbled, greets our western 

wave, 
And owns an equal — whom she wished a 

slave. 40 

1788. 

Daily Advertiser, New York, Mar. 9, 1790. 

^ At this time Rhode-Island was not a mem- 
ber of the general Confederation of the Ameri- 
can States. (^Author's Note.) 



112 



AMERICAN POETRY 



CONGRESS HALL, N. Y. 

With eager step and wrinkled brow, 

The busy sons of care 
(Disgusted with less splendid scenes) 

To Congress Hall repair. 

In order placed, they patient wait 
To seize each word that flies. 

From what they hear, they sigh or smile, 
Look cheerful, grave, or wise. 

Within these walls the doctrines taught 
Are of such vast concern, ^° 

That all the world, with one consent, 
Here strives to live — and learn. 

The timorous heart, that cautious shuns 

All churches, but its own. 
No more observes its wonted rules; 

But ventures here, alone. 

Four hours a day each rank alike, 
(They that can walk or crawl) 

Leave children, business, shop, and wife, 
And steer for Congress Hall. 20 

From morning tasks of mending soals 

The cobler hastes away; 
At three returns, and tells to Kate 

The business of the day. 

The debtor, vext with early duns, 

Avoids his hated home; 
And here and there dejected roves 

'Till hours of Congress come. 

The barber, at the well-known time. 
Forsakes his bearded man, 3° 

And leaves him with his lathered jaws. 
To trim them as he can. 

The tailor, plagued with suits on suits. 

Neglects Sir Fopling's call, 
Throws by his goose — slips from his 
board, 

And trots to Congress Hall. 

Daily Advertiser, New York, Mar. 12, 1790. 



ON THE DEATH OF DR. BENJAMIN 

FRANKLIN 

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood 
The glory of its native wood, 
By storms destroyed, or length of years. 
Demands the tribute of our tears. 



The pile, that took long time to raise, 
To dust returns by slow decays : 
But, when its destined years are o'er, 
We must regret the loss the more. 

So long accustomed to your aid, 
The world laments your exit made; ^° 
So long befriended by your art. 
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part ! — 

When monarchs tumble to the ground, 

Successors easily are found: 

But, matchless Franklin ! what few 

Can hope to rival such as you, 

Who seized from kings their sceptred 

pride, 
AiA turned the lightning's darts aside ! 

Daily Advertiser, New York, Apr. 28, 1790. 



THE AMERICAN SOLDIER 
{A Picture from the Life.) 

"To serve with love. 
And shed your blood. 
Approved may be above. 
And here below 
{Examples shew') 
'Tis dangerous to be good." 

— Lord Oxford. 

Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms. 
Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to 

beg. 
He, who once warred on Saratoga's plains. 
Sits musing o'er his scars, and wooden 

leg. 

Remembering still the toil of former days, 
To other hands he sees his earnings 

paid ; — 
They share the due reward — he feeds on 

praise. 
Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune's 

shade. 

Far, far from domes where splendid 

tapers glare, 
'Tis his from dear bought peace no wealth 

to win, 10 

Removed alike from courtly cringing 

'squires. 
The great-man's Levee, and the proud 

man's grin. 

Sold are those arms which once on Britons 

blazed, 
When, flushed with conquest, to the 

charge they came; 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



113 



That power repelled, and Freedom's 

fabrick raised, 
She leaves her soldier— famine and a 

name! 



1790. 



1795. 



TO THE PUBLIC 



This age is so fertile of mighty events, 
That people complain, with some reason, 

no doubt, 
Besides the time lost, and besides the ex- 
pence, 
With reading the papers they're fairly 

worn out; 
The past is no longer an object of care, 
The present consumes all the time they 
can spare. 

Thus grumbles the reader, but still he 

reads on 
With his pence and his paper unwilling 

to part: 
He sees the world passing, men going and 

gone, 
Some riding in coaches, and some in a 

cart : lo 

For a peep at the farce a subscription 

he 11 give, — 
Revolutions must happen, and printers 

must live: 

For a share of your favour we aim with 

the rest: 
To enliven the scene we'll exert all our 

skill, 
What we have to impart shall be some 

of the best, 
And Multum in Parvo our text, if you 

will ; 
Since we never admitted a clause in our 

creed, 
That the greatest employment of life is— 

to read. 

The king of the French and the queen 

of the North 
iAt the head of the play, for the season 

we find: 20 

From the spark that we kindled, a flame 

has gone forth 
To astonish the world and enlighten man- 

kmd : 

Witha code of new doctrines the universe 

rings, 
f^nd Paine is addressing strange sermons 

to kmgs. 



Thus launch'd, as we are, on the ocean 

of news, 
In hopes that your pleasure our pains 

will repay. 
All honest endeavors the author will use 
To furnish a feast for the grave and the 

At least he'll essay such a track to pursue 

ihat the world shall approve— and his 

news shall be true. 30 

National Gazette, Phila., Oct. 31, 1791. 

SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND 
NINETY-ONE 

Great things have pass'd the last revolving 
year; ^ 

France on a curious jaunt has seen her 
king go,— 

Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian 
bear, 

Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domin- 

go- 
Sorry we are that Pompeys, C^sars, Catos 
Are mostly found with Negroes and Mu- 

lattoes. 

Discord, we think, must always be the lot 
Ut this poor world— nor is that discord 
vam, 

Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were 
not, 

Full many an honest Type would starve- 
that s plain ; 10 

Wars are their gain, whatever cause is 
found — 

Empires— or Cats-skins brought from 
JMootka-sound. 

The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadiv 
baisted — 

And many a Christian despot stands, con- 
triving 

Who next shall bleed— what country next 

be wasted — 
This is the trade by which they get their 

living: 

From Prussian Frederick, this the general 
plan 

To Empress Kate— that burns the Rights 
of Man. * 

The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they 

tell us; 
Of freedom's pipe he cannot hear the 

music, 20 

And worst of all when Frenchmen blow 

the bellows. 



114 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Enough almost (he thinks) to make a 

Jew sick : 
His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, 

and grey. 
All think it best to keep — the good old 

way. 

Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her 

fleet- 
Now tell us what the world will do for 

thunder?^ 
Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat 
Are at an end when Englishmen knock 

under : 
Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be 

spent, 
Lightning will fall — full twenty-five per 

cent. 30 

1795. 
TO MY BOOK 

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear ram- 
bling volume. 
Since, to all knavish wights a foe, 
I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em. 
Or drive them to the shades below : 
With spirit, still, of Democratic proof. 
And still despising Shylock's ^ canker'd 

hoof: 
What doom the fates intend, is hard to 

say. 
Whether to live to some far-distant day, 
Or sickening in your prime. 
In this hard-hitting clime, 10 

Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and 
flit away. 

"Virtue, order and religion. 

Haste, and seek some other region; 

Your plan is laid, to hunt them down, 
Destroy the mitre, rend the gown. 
And that vile hag, Philosophy, re- 
store" — 

Did ever volume plan so much before? 

For seven years past, a host of busy foes 

Have buzz'd about your nose. 

White, black, and grey, by night and 

day; 20 

Garbling, lying, singing, sighing: 
These eastern gales a cloud of insects 

bring 
That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering — 

on the wing — 
And, wafted still as discord's demon 

guides, 
Flock round the flame, and yet shall singe 

their hides. 

^ Freneau's nickname for his most hostile critic. 



Well ! — let the fates decree whate'er they 

please : 
Whether you're doomed to drink obliv- 
ion's cup, 
Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up. 
This I can say, you've spread your wings 

afar. 
Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and 

star ; 3° 

Still on the people's, still on Freedom's 

side, 
With fuU-determin'd aim, to baffle every 

claim 
Of well-born wights, that aim to mount 

and ride. 

National Gazette, Phila., Aug. 4, 1792. 



EPISTLE 

To a Student of Dead Languages 

I pity him, who, at no small expense, 
Has studied sound instead of sense : 
He, proud some antique gibberish to at- 
tain ; 
Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain. 
Devours the husk, and leaves the grain. 

In his own language Homer writ and 
read. 

Nor spent his life in poring on the dead: 

Why then your native language not pur- 
sue 

In which all ancient sense (that's worth 
review) 

Glows in translation, fresh and new? 1° 

He better plans, who things, not words, 
attends, 

And turns his studious hours to active 
ends; 

Who Art through every secret maze ex- 
plores. 

Invents, contrives — and Nature's hidden 
stores 

From mirrours, to their object true. 

Presents to man's obstructed view, 

That dimly meets the light, and faintly 
soars : — 

His strong capacious mind 

By fetters unconfined 

Of Latin lore and heathen Greek, 2° 

Takes Science in its way. 

Pursues the kindling ray 

'Till Reason's morn shall on him break ! 

1795 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



115 



• ODE 

On the Frigate Constitution i 

"And in those days men settled themselves on 
the waters, and lived there, not because land 
was wanting, but that they wished not to be 
slaves to such as were great and mighty on the 
land." — Modern History. 

Thus launch'd at length upon the main 
And soon prepar'd the seas to roam, 
In your capacious breast ere long 
Will many an idler find a home 
That sells his freedom for a song, 
Quits fields and trees 
For boisterous seas, 
T- tread his native soil no more, 
And see — but not possess — the shore. 

Well ! let them go — can there be loss ^° 

In those who Nature's bounty slight, 
From rural vales and freedom's shades 
To this dull cage who take their flight. 

The axe, the hoe. 

The plough forego. 
The buxom milk-maid's simple treat, 
The bliss of country life forget, 

For tumult here 

And toil severe, 
A gun their pillow when they sleep, 20 

And when they wake, are wak'd to weep. 

Dick Brothers said, "The time will come 
When war no more shall .prowl the sea. 

Nor men for pride or plunder roam. 

And my millenium brings them home, 
Howe'er dispers'd through each de- 
gree." 

If Richard proves a prophet true, 

Why may not we be quiet, too, 

And turn our bulldogs into lambs. 
Saw off the horns of battering rams 3° 
As well as Europe's sons? 

Ye Quakers ! see with pure delight. 

The times approach when men of might. 
And squadrons roving round the ball, 
Shall fight each other not at all, 
Or fight with wooden guns. 

And yet that Being you address, 
Who shaped old Chaos into form. 

May speak — and with a word suppress 
The tyrant and the storm. 40 

Time-Piece, Oct. 31, 1797. 

* The Constitution was launched October 23, 
1797, at Boston. See Holmes's "Old Ironsides," 
p. 422. 



TO THE AMERICANS OF THE 
UNITED STATES 

Men of this passing age! — whose noble 
deeds 

Honour will bear above the scum of 
Time : 

Ere this eventful century expire. 

Once more we greet you with our hum- 
ble rhyme : 

Pleased, if we meet your smiles, but — if 
denied, 

Yet, with Your sentence, we are satisfied. 

Catching our subjects from the varying 

scene 
Of human things; a mingled work we 

draw, 
Chequered with fancies odd, and figures 

strange. 
Such, as no courtly poet ever saw; 1° 

Who writ, beneath some Great Man's 

ceiling placed; 
Travelled no lands, nor roved the watery 

waste. 

To seize some features from the faith- 
less past; 

Be this our care before the century close; 

The colours strong! — for, if we deem 
aright. 

The coming age will be an age of prose : 

When sordid cares will break the muses' 
dream. 

And Common Sense be ranked in seat 
supreme. 

Go, now, dear book; once more expand 

your wings : . '9 

Still in the cause of Man severely true : 
Untaught to flatter pride, or fawn on 

kings; — 
Trojan, or Tyrian, — give them both their 

due. — 
When they are right, the cause of both 

we plead, 
And both will please us well, — if both 

will read. 

1797 

THE POLITICAL WEATHER-COCK 

'Tis strange that things upon the ground 
Are commonly most steady found 

While those in station proud 
Are turned and twirled, or twist about, 
Now here and there, now in or out. 

Mere playthings to a cloud. 



116 



AMERICAN POETRY 



See yonder influential man, 
So late the stern Republican 

While interest bore him up ; 
See him recant, abjure the cause, i" 

See him support tyrannic laws, 

The dregs of slavery's cup ! 

Thus, on yon steeple towering high, 
Where clouds and storms distracted fly, 

The weather-cock is placed ; 
Which only while the storm does blow 
Is to one point of compass true. 

Then veers with every blast. 

But things are so appointed here 

That weather-cocks on high appear, 20 

On pinnacle displayed, 
While Sense, and Worth, and reasoning 

wights, 
And they who plead for Human Rights, 

Sit humble in the shade. 

In "Poems," 1809. 



ON A HONEY BEE 

Drinking from a Glass of Wine and 
Drowned Therein 

By Hezekiah Salem 

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring. 
Or quaff the waters of the stream, 
Why hither come on vagrant wings? — 
Does Bacchus tempting seem — 
Did he, for you, this glass prepare? — 
Will I admit you to a share? 

Did storms harass or foes perplex, 

Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay — 

Did wars distress, or labours vex. 

Or did you miss your way? — 1° 

A better seat you could not take 

Than on the margin of this lake. 

Welcome ! — I hail you to my glass : 

All welcome, here, you find; 

Here, let the cloud of trouble pass, 

Here, be all care resigned. — 

This fluid never fails to please, 

And drown the griefs of men or bees. 

What forced you here, we cannot know. 

And you will scarcely tell — 20 

But cheery we would have you go 

And bid a glad farewell: 

On lighter wings we bid you fly. 

Your dart will now all foes defy. 



Yet take not, oh ! too deep a drink, 

And in this ocean die; 

Here bigger bees than you might sink. 

Even bees full six feet high. 

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said 

To perish in a sea of red. 3° 

Do as you please, your will is mine; 

Enjoy it without fear — 

And your grave will be this glass of wine, 

Your epitaph — a tear — 

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat', 

We'll tell the hive, you died afloat. 

In "Poems," 1809. 



ON THE BRITISH COMMERCIAL 
DEPREDATIONS 

As gallant ships as ever ocean stemm'd — 
A thousand ships are captured, and con- 

demn'd ! 
Ships from our shores, with native car- 
goes fraught, 
And sailing to the very shores they ought : 
And yet at peace ! — the wrong is past 

all bearing; 
The very comets are the war declaring: 
Six thousand seamen groan beneath your 

power, 
For years immured, and prisoners to this 
hour : 

Then England come ! a sense of wrong 

requires 
To meet with thirteen stars your thousand 

fires ; . 1° 

On your own seas the conflict to sustain, 
Or drown them, with your commerce in 

the main ! 

True do we speak, and who can well 

deny. 
That England claims all water, land, and 

sky 
Her power expands — extends through 

every zone, 
Nor bears a rival — but must rule alone. 
To enforce her claims, a thousand sails 

unfurl'd 
Pronounce their home the cock-pit of the 

world ; 
The modern Tyre, whose fiends and lions 

prowl, 
A tyrant navy, which in time must howl. 
Heaven send the time — the v^rorld obeys 

her nod : 21 



PHILIP FRENEAU 



117 



Her nods, we hope, the sleep of death 
forbode; 

Some mighty change, when plunder'd 
thrones agree. 

And plunder'd countries, to- make com- 
merce free. 

In "Poems," 1809. 



TO A CATY-DID 

In a branch of willow hid 
Sings the evening Caty-did : 
From the lofty locust bough 
Feeding on a drop of dew, 
In her suit of green array'd 
Hear her singing in the shade 

Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did! 

While upon a leaf you tread. 
Or repose your little head. 
On your sheet of shadows laid, 
All the day you nothing said; 
Half the night your cheery tongue 
Revelled out its little song, 

Nothing else but Caty-did. 

From your lodgings on the leaf 
Did you utter joy or grief — ? 
Did you only mean to say, 
I have had my summer's day, 
And am passing, soon, away 
To the grave of Caty-did : — 

Poor, unhappy Caty-did ! 

But you would have utter'd more 
Had you known of nature's power — 
From the world when you retreat, 
And a leaf's your winding sheet, 



Long before your spirit fled. 
Who can tell but nature said. 
Live again, my Caty-did ! 
Live, and chatter Caty-did. 

Tell me, what did Caty do? 30 

Did she mean to trouble you? — 
Why was Caty not forbid 
To trouble little Caty-did? — • 
Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, 
Hurting no one while you sing 

Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Caty-did ! 

Why continue to complain? 
Caty tells me, she again 
Will not give you plague or pain : — 
Caty says you may be hid 40 

Caty will not go to bed 
While you sing us Caty-did. 

Caty-did ! Caty-did ! Caty-did ! 

But, while singing, you forgot 
To tell us what did Caty not: 
Caty-did not think of cold. 
Flocks retiring to the fold, 
Winter, with his wrinkles old. 
Winter, that yourself foretold 

When you gave us Caty-did. So 

Stay securely in your nest; 
Caty now will do her best. 
All she can, to make you blest; 
But, you want no human aid — 
Nature, when she form'd you, said, 
"Independent you are made, 
My dear little Caty-did: 
Soon yourself must disappear 
With the verdure of the year," — 
And to go, we know not where, 60 

With your song of Caty-did. 

In "Poems," 1815. 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT 

(1752-1817) 



From Greenfield Hill 

Part IV— THE DESTRUCTION OF 

THE PEQUODSi 

(The text is taken from the original 
edition of 179Ji.) 

This selel-tion begins icith the 13th stansa. 

In yon small field, that dimly steals from 

sight, 
(From yon small field these meditations 

grow) 
Turning the sluggish soil, from morn to 

night, 
The plodding hind, laborious, drives his 

plough, 
Nor dreams, a nation sleeps, his foot 

below. 
There, undisturbed by the roaring wave, 
Releas'd from war, and far from deadly 

foe, 
Lies down, in endless rest, a nation brave, 

^ The Pequods inhabited the branches of the 
Thames, which empties itself into the ■ Sound, 
at New London. This nation, from the first 
settlement of the English Colonists, regarded 
them with jealousy; and attempted to engage 
the neighboring tribes in a combination against 
them. Several of those tribes were, however, 
more jealous of the Pequods, than of the En- 
glish, and rejected their solicitations. Not dis- 
couraged by these disappointments, they resolved 
to attempt the destruction of the English, with 
the strength of their own tribes only; and cruelly 
assassinated Captains Stone, Norton, and Old- 
ham, as they were trading peaceably in their 
neighborhood. The English demanded the 
murderers; but were answered with disdain, 
and insult. Upon this, Captain Mason was 
dispatched into their country with a body of 
troops; and attacking one of their principal 
forts, destroyed it, together with a large number 
of their warriors. The rest of the nation fled. 
A large body of them came to a swamp; three 
miles westward of Fairfield. One of their 
number loitering behind the rest, was discovered 
by the English troops, then commanded by 
Captain Stoughton, of the Massachusetts; and 
was compelled to disclose their retreat. One 
hundred of them, it is said, surrendered. The 
rest, bravely resolving to live and die together, 
were attacked, and chiefly destroyed. On this 
piece of History, the following part of the Poem 
is founded. It is introduced by reflections on 
the changes, wrought in the world by time. 
Ancient Empires. Great Britain. America. 
Story related, with reflections on the savages. 
Conclusion. (.The "Argument" as supplied by 
the Author.) 



And trains, in tempests born, there find 
a quiet grave. 

Oft have I heard the tale, when matron 

sere 'o 

Sung to my infant ear the song of woe; 
Of maiden meek, consum'd with pining 

care. 
Around whose tomb the wild-rose lov'd 

to blow; 
Or told, with swimming eyes, how, long 

ago. 
Remorseless Indians, all in midnight dire. 
The little, sleeping village, did o'erthrow, 
Bidding the cruel flames to heaven aspire, 
And scalp'd the hoary head, and burn'd 

the babe with fire. 

Then, fancy-fir'd, her memory wing'd its 

flight, 
To long- forgotten wars, and dread 

alarms, 2° 

To chiefs obscure, but terrible in fight. 
Who mock'd each foe, and laugh'd at 

deadliest harms, 
Sydneys in zeal, and Washingtons in 

arms. 
By instinct tender to the woes of man, 
My heart bewildering with sweet pity's 

charms. 
Thro' solemn scenes, with Nature's step, 

she ran, 
And hush'd her audience small, and thus 

the tale began. 



118 



"Thro' verdant banks where Thames's 

branches glide. 
Long held the Pequods an extensive' 

sway; 
Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious 

pride. 3o 

And bidding all the circling realms obey. 
Jealous, they saw the tribes, beyond the 

sea. 
Plant in their climes ; and towns, and 

cities, rise; 
Ascending castles foreign flags display; 
Mysterious art new scenes of life devise; 
And steeds insult the plains, and cannon 

rend the skies." 



I 



11 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT 



119 



"They saw, and soon the strangers' fate 

decreed, 
And soon of war disclos'd the crimson 

sign ; 
First, hapless Stone ! they bade thy 

bosom bleed, 
A guiltless offering at th' infernal shrine: 
Then, gallant Norton ! the hard fate was 

thine, _ 41 

By ruffians butcher'd, and denied a grave : 
Thee, generous Oldham ! next the doom 

malign 
Arrested ; nor could all thy courage save ; 
Forsaken, plunder'd, cleft, and buried in 

the wave." 

"Soon the sad tidings reach'd the general 
ear; 

And prudence, pity, vengeance, all in- 
spire : 

Invasive war their gallant friends pre- 
pare; 

And soon a noble band, with purpose dire, 

And threatening arms, the murderous 
fiends require : 50 

Small was the band, but never taught to 
yield ; 

Breasts fac'd with steel, and souls in- 
stinct with fire : 

Such souls, from Sparta, Persia's world 
repell'd, 

When nations pav'd the ground, and 
Xerxes flew the field." 

"The rising clouds the Savage Chief de- 
scried. 

And, round the forest, bade his heroes 
arm; 

To arms the painted warriors proudly 
hied, 

And through surrounding nations rung 
the alarm. 

The nations heard; but smil'd, to see the 
storm. 

With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod moun- 
tains driven ; 60 

And felt infernal joy the bosom warm. 

To see their light hang o'er the skirts of 
even. 

And other suns arise, to gild a kinder 
heaven." 

"Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped. 
Far in the wildering woods' impervious 

gloom ; 
A lonely castle, brown with twilight 

dread ; 
'Where oft th' embowel'd captive met his 

doom, 



And frequent heav'd, around the hollow 

tomb; 
Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones 

were strew'd ; 
Where, round the broiling babe, fresh 

from the womb, 70 

With howls the Powaw fill'd the dark 

abode. 
And screams, and midnight prayers, in- 

vok'd the Evil god." 

"There too, with awful rites, the hoary 

priest. 
Without, beside the moss-grown altar, 

stood. 
His sable form in magic cincture dress'd, 
And heap'd the mingled offering to his 

god. 
What time, with golden light, calm even- 
ing glow'd. 
The mystic dust, the flower of silver 

bloom. 
And spicy herb, his hand in order strew'd; 
Bright rose the curling flame; and rich 

perfume 80 

On smoky wings upflew, or settled round 

the tomb." 

"Then, o'er the circus, danc'd the mad- 
dening throng. 
As erst the Thyas roam'd dread Nusa 

round, 
And struck, to forest notes, the ecstatic 

song. 
While slow, beneath them, heav'd the 

wavy ground. 
With a low, lingering groan, of dying 

sound. 
The woodland rumbled; murmur'd deep 

each stream ; 
Shrill sung the leaves ; all ether sigh'd 

profound; 
Pale tufts of purple topp'd the silver 

flame. 
And many-colour'd Forms on evening 

breezes came." 9° 

"Thin, twilight Forms; attir'd in chang- 
ing sheen 

Of plumes, high-tinctur'd in the western 
ray; 

Bending, they peep'd the fleecy folds be- 
tween. 

Their wings light-rustling in the breath 
of May. 

Soft-hovering round the fire, in mystic 
play. 

They snuff'd the incense, wav'd in clouds 
afar, 



120 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Then, silent, floated toward the setting 

day : 
Eve redden'd each fine form, each misty 

car; 
And through them faintly gleam'd, at 

times, the Western Star." 

"Then (so tradition sings), the train be- 
hind, _ Joo 

In plumy zones of rainbow'd beauty 
dress'd, 

Rode the Great Spirit, in th' obedient 
wind, 

In yellow clouds slow-sailing from the 
West. 

With dawning smiles, the God his vo- 
taries bless'd. 

And taught where deer retir'd to ivy dell. 

What chosen chief with proud command 
to' invest; 

Where crept th' approaching foe, with 
purpose fell, 

And where to wind the scout, and war's 
dark storm dispel." 

"There, on her lover's tomb, in silence 

laid, 
While still, and sorrowing, shower'd the 

moon's pale beam, "o 

At times, expectant, slept the widow'd 

maid. 
Her soul far-wandering on the sylph- 

wing'd dream. 
W£.fted from evening skies, on sunny 

stream, 
Her darling Youth with silver pinions 

shone. 
With voice of music, tun'd to sweetest 

theme. 
He told of shell-bright bowers, beyond 

the sun, 
Where years of endless joy o'er Indian 

lovers run." 

"But now no awful rites, nor potent spell. 
To silence charm'd the peals of coming 

war; 
Or told the dread recesses of the dell, ^^o 
Where glowing Mason led his bands from 

far: 
No spirit, buoyant on his airy car, 
Controul'd the whirlwind of invading 

fight: 
Deep died in blood, dun evening's falling 

star 
Sent sad, o'er western hills, it's parting 

light, 
And no returning morn dispers'd the long, 

dark night." 



"On the drear walls a sudden splendour 

glow'd, 
There Mason shone, and there his veter- 
ans pour'd. 
Anew the Hero claim'd the fiends of 

blood. 
While answering storms of arrows round 

him shower'd, 130 

And the war-scream the ear with anguish 

gor'd. 
Alone, he burst the gate : the forest 

round 
Re-echoed death ; the peal of onset roar'd ; 
In rush'd the squadrons ; earth in blood 

was drown'd ; 
And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid 

the ground." 

"Not long in dubious fight the host had 

striven, 
When, kindled by the musket's potent 

flame. 
In clouds, and fire, the castle rose to 

heaven. 
And gloom'd the world, with melancholy 

beam. 
Then hoarser groans, with deeper anguish, 

came ; 140 

And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd : 
Nor even these ills the savage breast 

could tame; 
Like hell's deep caves, the hideous region 

yell'd, 
'Till death, and sweeping fire, laid waste 

the hostile field." 

"Soon the sad tale their friends surviv- 
ing heard; 
And Mason, Mason, rung in every wind : 
Quick from their rugged wilds they dis- 

appear'd, 
Howl'd down the hills, and left the blast 

behind. 
Their fastening foes, by generous Stough- 

ton join'd. 
Hung o'er the rear, and every brake ex- 

plor'd; 150 

But such dire terror seiz'd the savage 

mind. 
So swift and black a storm behind them 

lowr'd, 
On wings of raging fear, thro' spacious^ 

realms they scowr'd."^ 



1 The preceding passage includes lines 109-2611 
in Part IV. Here follow 99 lines of "reflec-f 
tions on the savages," alluded to in the Argu-| 
ment. Then comes the Conclusion of the Part. 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT 



121 



"Amid a circling marsh, expanded wide, 
To a lone hill the Pequods woui.d their 

way; 
And none, but Heaven, the mansion had 

descried. 
Close-tangled, wild, impervious to the 

day; 
But one poor wanderer, loitering long 

astray, 'S8 

Wilder'd in labyrinths of pathless wood. 
In a tall tree embower'd, obscurely lay : 
Strait summon'd down, the trembling 

suppliant show'd 
Where lurk'd his vanish'd friends, within 

their drear abode." 

"To death, the murderers were anew re- 

quir'd, 
A pardon proffer'd, and a peace assur'd; 
And, though with vengeful heat their foes 

were fir'd, 
Their lives, their freedom, and their lands, 

secur'd. 
Some yielding heard. In fastness strong 

immur'd, 
The rest the terms refus'd, with brave 

disdain, 
Near, and more near, the peaceful Herald 

lur'd ; 
Then bade a shower of arrows round him 

rain, 170 

And wing'd him swift, from danger, to 

the distant plain." 

"Through the sole, narrow way, to ven- 
geance led. 

To final fight our generous heroes drew ; 

And Stoughton now had pass'd th' moor's 
black -shade. 

When hell's terrific region screara'd anew. 

Undaunted, on their foes they fiercely 
flew; 

As fierce, the dusky warriors crowd the 
fight; 

Despair inspires, to combat's face they 
glue; 

With groans, and shouts, they rage, un- 
knowing flight, 

And close their sullen eyes, in shades of 
endless night." 180 

Indulge, my native land ! indulge the tear. 
That steals, impassion'd, o'er a nation's 

doom : 
To me each twig, from Adam's stock, is 

near, 
And sorrows fall upon an Indian's tomb. 
And, O ye Chiefs ! in yonder starry home. 
Accept the humble tribute of this rhyme. 



Your gallant deeds, in Greece, or haughty 

Rome, 
liy Maro sung, or Homer's harp sublime. 
Had charm'd the world's wide round, and 

triumph'd over time. 

1794. 

From Greenfield Hill 
Part VI 

THE FARMER'S ADVICE TO THE 
VILLAGERS 1 

Ye children of my fondest care. 
With tenderest love, and frequent prayer. 
This solemn charge, my voice has given. 
To prompt, and guide, your steps to 

heaven. 
Your present welfare now demands 
A different tribute, from my hands. 

Not long since liv'd a Farmer plain. 
Intent to gather honest grain. 
Laborious, prudent, thrifty, neat. 
Of judgment strong, experience great, 1° 
In solid homespun clad, and tidy. 
And with no coxcomb learning giddy. 
Daily, to hear his maxims sound, 
Th' approaching neighbours flock'd 

around ; 
Daily they saw his counsels prove 
The source of union, peace, and love. 
The means of prudence, and of wealth. 
Of comfort, cheerfulness, and health : 
And all, who follow'd his advice, '9 

Appear'd more prosperous, as more wise. 

Wearied, at length, with many a call, 
The sage resolv'd to summon all : 
And gathering, on a pleasant monday, 
A crowd not always seen on sunday, 
Curious to hear, while hard they press'd 

him. 
In friendly terms, he thus address'd 'em. 

"My friends, you have my kindest 
wishes ; 
Pray think a neighbour not officious. 
While thus, to teach you how to live. 
My very best advice I give." 3° 

^ Introduction. Farmer introduced. Villagers 
assembled. He recommends to them an indus- 
trious and economical life, the careful educa- 
tion and government of their children, and 
particularly the establishment of good habits in 
early life; enjoins upon them the offices of good 
neighborhood, the avoidance of litigation, and 
the careful cultivation of parochial harmony. 
Conclusion. (The "Argument" as supplied by 
the Author.) 



122 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"And first, industrious be your lives; 
Alike employ'd yourselves, and wives : 
Your children, join'd in labour gay, 
With something useful fill each day. 
Those little times of leisure save, 
Which most men lose, and all men have; 
The half days, when a job is done; 
The whole days, when a storm is on. 
Few know, without a strict account, 
To what these little times amount : 4° 

If wasted, while the same your cost, 
The sums, you might have earn'd, are lost. 

"Learn small things never to despise: 
You little think how fast they rise. 
A rich reward the mill obtains, 
'Tho' but two quarts a bushel gains : 
Still rolling on it's steady rounds. 
The farthings soon are turn'd to pounds." 

"Nor think a life of toil severe: 
No life has blessings so sincere. 5° 

It's meals so luscious, sleep so sweet. 
Such vigorous limbs, such health complete, 
A mind so active, brisk, and gay. 
As his, who toils the livelong day. 
A life of sloth drags hardly on; 
Suns set too late, and rise too soon ; 
Youth, manhood, age, all linger slow, 
To him, who nothing has to do. 
The drone, a nuisance to the hive. 
Stays, but can scarce be said to live ; 6o 
And well the bees, those judges wise, 
Plague, chase, and sting him, 'till he dies. 
Lawrence, like him, tho' sav'd from hang- 
ing. 
Yet every day deserves a banging." 

"Let order o'er your time preside, 
And method all your business guide. 
Early begin, and end, your toil ; 
Nor let great tasks your hands embroil. 
One thing at once, be still begun, 
Contriv'd, resolv'd, pursued, and done. ''° 
Hire not, for what yourselves can do ; 
And send not, when yourselves can go ; 
Nor, 'till to-morrow's light, delay 
What might as well be done today. 
By steady efforts all men thrive. 
And long by moderate labour live ; 
While eager toil, and anxious care, 
Health, strength, and peac^ and life, 
impair." 

"What thus your hands with labour earn. 
To save, be now your next concern. 8o 
Whate'er to health, or real use. 
Or true enjoyment, will conduce. 
Use freely, and with pleasure use; 



But ne'er the gifts of Heaven abuse: 
I joy to see your treasur'd stores, 
Which smiling Plenty copious pours; 
Your cattle sleek, your poultry fine, 
Your cider in the tumbler shine, 
Your tables, smoking from the hoard. 
And children smiling round the board. 9° 
All rights to use in you conspire; 
The labourer's worthy of his hire. 
Ne'er may that hated day arrive. 
When worse yourselves, or yours shall live ; 
Your dress, your lodging, or your food. 
Be less abundant, neat, or good; 
Your dainties all to market go. 
To feast the epicure, and beau; 
But ever on your tables stand. 
Proofs of a free and happy land."i '0° 



"In this new World, life's changing 
round. 
In three descents, is often found. 
The first, firm, busy, plodding poor. 
Earns, saves, and daily swells, his store: 
By farthings first, and pence, it grows; 
In shillings next, and pounds, it flows; 
Then spread his widening farms, abroad: 
His forests wave; his harvests nod; 
Fattening, his numerous cattle play. 
And debtors dread his reckoning day. "o 
Ambitious then t' adorn with knowledge 
His son, he places him at college; 
And sends, in smart attire, and neat. 
To travel, thro' each neighbouring state; 
Builds him a handsome house, or buys, 
Sees him a gentleman, and dies." 

"The second born to wealth £.nd ease. 
And taught to think, converse, and please. 
Ambitious, with his lady-wife. 
Aims at a higher walk of life. 120 

Yet, in those wholesome habits train'd, 
By which his wealth, and weight, were 

gain'd. 
Bids care in hand with pleasure go. 
And blends economy with show. 
His houses, fences, garden, dress. 
The neat and thrifty man confess. 
Improv'd, but with improvement plain. 
Intent on office, as on gain, 
Exploring, useful sweets to spy, 
To public life he turns his eye. '3° 

A townsman first ; a justice soon ; 
A member of the nouse anon; 
Perhaps to board, or bench, invited. 
He sees the state, and subjects, righted; 

^ Tlie preceding passage includes lines 1-100 
in Part VI. The passage which follows is from 
the Conclusion of the Book, lines 596-682. 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT 



123 



And, raptur'd with politic life, 
Consigns his children to his wife. 
Of household cares amid the round. 
For her, too hard the task is found. 
At first she struggles, and contends ; 
Then doubts, desponds, laments, and 

bends ; , '4o 

Her sons pursue the sad defeat, 
And shout their victory complete; 
Rejoicing, see their father roam. 
And riot, rake, and reign, at home. 
Too late he sees, and sees to mourn. 
His race of every hope forlorn, 
Abroad, for comfort, turns his eyes. 
Bewails his dire mistakes, and dies." 

"His heir, train'd only to enjoy, 
Untaught his mind, or hands, t' employ, 'S© 
Conscious of wealth enough for life. 
With business, care, and worth, at strife. 
By prudence, conscience, unrestrain'd, 
And none, but pleasure's habits gain'd. 
Whirls on the wild career of sense, 
Nor danger marks, nor heeds expense. 
Soon ended is the giddy round; 
And soon the fatal goal is found. 
His lands secur'd for borrow'd gold, 
His houses, horses, herds, are sold. '60 
And now, no more for wealth respected. 
He sinks, by all his friends neglected; 
Friends, who, before, his vices flatter'd. 
And liv'd upon the lonves he scatter'd. 
Unacted every worthy part. 
And pining with a broken heart. 
To dirtiest company he flies. 
Whores, gambles, turns a sot, and dies. 
His children, born to fairer doom. 
In rags, pursue him to the tomb." '7° 

"Apprentic'd then to masters stern. 
Some real good the orphans learn; 
Are bred to toil, and hardy fare. 
And grow to usefulness, and care; 
And, following their great-grandsire's 

plan. 
Each slow becomes a useful man." 

"Such here is life's swift-circling round; 
So soon are all its changes found. 
Would you prevent th' allotment hard. 
And fortune's rapid whirl retard, 'So 

In all your race, industrious care 
Attentive plant, and faithful rear; 
With life, th' important task begin. 
Nor but with life, the task resign; 
To habit, bid the blessing grow. 
Habits alone yield good below'* 

1794. 



COLUMBIA 

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, 

The queen of the world, and child of the 

skies ! 
Thy genius command thee; with rapture 

behold. 
While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. 
Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of 

time, 
Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy 

clime; 
Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrim- 

son thy name. 
Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy 

fame. 

To conquest, and slaughter, let Europe 

aspire; 
Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities 

in fire; 10 

Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall 

defend, 
And triumph pursue them, and glory at- 
tend. 
A world is thy realm : for a world be 

thy laws. 
Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy 

cause; 
On Freedom's broad basis, that empire 

shall rise, 
Extend with the main, and dissolve with 

the skies. 

Fair science her gates to thy sons shall 

unbar. 
And the east see thy morn hide the beams 

of her star. 
New bards, and new sages, unrival'd shall 

soar 
To fame, unextinguish'd, when time is no 

more ; 20 

To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed. 
Shall fly from all nations the best of man- 
kind; 
Here, grateful to heaven, with transport 

shall bring 
Their incense, more fragrant than odors 

of spring. 

Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory 
ascend. 

And Genius and Beauty in harmony blend ; 

The graces of form shall awake pure de- 
sire. 

And the charms of the soul ever cherish 
the fire; 

Their sweetness unmingled, their manners 
refin'd 



124 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And virtue's bright image, instamp'd on 
the mind, 3" 

With peace, and soft rapture, shall teach 
life to glow, 

And light up a smile in the aspect of woe. 

Thy fleets to all regions thy pow'r shall 
display, 

The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; 

Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold. 

And the east and the south yield their 
spices and gold. 

As the day-spring unbounded, thy splen- 
dor shall flow. 

And earth's little kingdoms before thee 
shall bow, 

While the ensigns of union, in triumph 
unfurl'd. 

Hush the tumult of war, and give peace 
to the world. 40 

Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars 

o'erspread. 
From war's dread confusion I pensively 

stray' d — 
The gloom from the face of fair heav'n 

retir'd ; 
The winds ceased to murmur; the thun- 
ders expir'd ; 
Perfumes, as of Eden, flow'd sweetly 

along. 
And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly 

sung : 
"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise. 
The queen of the world, and the child 

of the skies." 



LOVE TO THE CHURCH 

I love thy kingdom, Lord, 
The house of thine abode. 

The church our blest Redeemer saved 
With his own precious blood. 

I love thy church, O God ! 

Her walls before thee stand, 
Dear as the apple of thine eye, 

And graven on thy hand. 

H e'er to bless thy sons 

My voice or hands deny, 
These hands let useful skill forsake, 

This voice in silence die. 

For her my tears shall fall. 
For her my prayers ascend; 

To her my cares and toils be given 
Till toils and cares shall end. 

Beyond my highest joy 
I prize her heavenly ways. 

Her sweet communion, solemn vows, 
Her hymns of love and praise. 

Jesus, thou friend divine. 

Our Saviour and our King, 
Thy hand from every snare and foe 

Shall great deliverance bring. 

Sure as thy truth shall last, 

To Zion shall be given 
The brightest glories earth can yield, 

And brighter bliss of heaven. 



JOEL BARLOW 

(1754-1813) 



THE VISION OF COLUMBUS 
From Book VII ^ 

(The text is taken from the original 
edition of 1787.) 

In youthful minds to wake the ardent 

flame, 
To nurse the arts, and point the paths 

of fame. 
Behold their liberal fires, with guardian 

care, 
Thro' all the realms their feats of science 

rear. 
Great without pomp the modest mansions 

rise; 
Harvard and Yale and Princeton greet 

the skies ; 
Penn's ample walls o'er Del'ware's margin 

bend. 
On James's bank the royal spires ascend. 
Thy turrets, York, Columbia's walks, 

command, 
Bosom'd in groves, see growing Dart- 
mouth stand; 'o 
While, o'er the realm reflecting solar fires, 
On yon tall hill Rhode-Island's seat as- 
pires. 
O'er all the shore, with sails and cities 

gay, 
And where rude hamlets stretch their 

inland sway. 
With humbler walls unnumber'd schools 

arise, 
And youths unnumber'd sieze the solid 

prize. 
In no blest land has Science rear'd her 

fane. 
And fix'd so firm her wide-extended 

reign ; 
Each rustic here, that turns the furrow'd 

soil, 
The maid, the youth, that ply mechanic 

toil, 20 

In freedom nurst, in useful arts inured. 
Know their just claims, and see their 

rights secured. 

^ Hymn to Peace. Progress of Arts in Amer- 
ica. Furtrade. Fisheries. Productions and 
Commerce. Education. Philosophical inven- 
tions. Painting. Poetry. (The "Argument" as 
supplied by the Author.) This selection is the 
latter two-thirds of the Book. 



And lo, descending from the seats of 

art, 
The growing throngs for active scenes 

depart, 
In various garbs they tread the welcome 

land. 
Swords at their side or sceptres in their 

hand, 
With healing powers bid dire diseases 

cease, 
Or sound the tidings of eternal peace. 

In no blest land has fair Religion shone, 
And fix'd so firm her everlasting throne. 3° 
Where, o'er the realms those spacious 

temples shine. 
Frequent and full the throng'd assemblies 

join; 
There, fired with virtue's animating flame, 
The sacred task unnumber'd sages claim; 
The task, for angels great; in early youth, 
To lead whole nations in the walks of 

truth. 
Shed the bright beams of knowledge on 

the mind. 
For social compact harmonize mankind, 
To life, to happiness, to joys above, 
The soften'd soul with ardent zeal to 

move ; 40 

For this the voice of Heaven, in early 

years. 
Tuned the glad songs of life-inspiring 

seers. 
For this consenting seraphs leave the 

skies. 
The God compassionates, the Saviour 

dies. 
Tho' different faiths their various or- 
ders show, 
That seem discordant to the train below; 
Yet one blest cause, one universal flame. 
Wakes all their joys and centres every 

aim; 
They tread the same bright steps, and 

smoothe the road. 
Lights of the world and messengers of 

God. 50 

So the galaxy broad o'er heaven displays 
Of various stars the same unbounded 

blaze ; 
Where great and small their mingling 

rays unite. 
And earth and skies repay the friendly 

light. 



125 



126 



AMERICAN POETRY 



While thus the hero view'd the sacred 

band, 
Moved by one voice and guided by one 

hand, 
He saw the heavens unfold, a form de- 
scend, 
Down the dim skies his arm of light 

extend, 
From God's own altar lift a living coal, 
Touch their glad lips and brighten every 

soul ; 60 

Then, with accordant voice and heavenly 

tongue, 
O'er the wide clime these welcome accents 

rung. 
Ye darkling race of poor distrest man- 
kind, 
For bliss still groping and to virtue blind. 
Hear from on high th' Almighty's voice 

descend; 
Ye heavens, be silent, and thou earth, at- 
tend. 
I reign the Lord of life; I fill the round. 
Where stars and skies and angels know 

their bound; 
Before all years, beyond all thought I 

live, 
Light, form and motion, time and space 

I give; 70 

Touch'd by this hand, all worlds within 

me roll, 
Mine eye their splendor and my breath 

their soul. 
Earth, with her lands and seas, my power 

proclaims. 
There moves my spirit, there descend my 

flames ; 
Graced with the semblance of the Maker's 

mind. 
Rose from the darksome dust the rea- 
soning kind, 
With powers of thought to trace the 

eternal Cause, 
That all his works to one great system 

draws. 
View the full chain of love, the all-ruling 

plan. 
That binds the God, the angel and the 

man, 80 

That gives all hearts to feel, all minds to 

know 
The bliss of harmony, of strife the woe. 
This heaven of concord, who of mortal 

strain 
Shall dare oppose — he lifts his arm in 

vain ; 
The avenging universe shall on him roll 
The intended wrong, and whelm his guilty 

soul. 



Then lend your audience; hear, ye sons 
of earth, 

Rise into life, behold the promised birth; 

From pain to joy, from guilt to glory rise, 

Be babes on earth, be seraphs in the 
skies. 90 

Lo, to the cries of grief mild mercy bends. 

Stern vengeance softens and the God de- 
scends, 

The atoning God, the pardoning grace to 
seal, 

The dead to quicken and the sick to heal. 

See from his sacred side the life-blood 
flow, 

Hear in his groans unutterable woe; 

While, fixt in one strong pang, the all 
suffering Mind 

Bears and bewails the tortures of man- 
kind. 

But lo, the ascending pomp ! around him 
move 

His rising saints, the first-born sons of 
love ; 100 

View the glad throng, the glorious tri- 
umph join, 

His paths pursue and in his splendor 
shine ; 

Purged from your stains in his atoning 
blood, 

Assume his spotless robes and reign be- 
side your God. 
Thus heard the hero — while his roving 
view 

Traced other crouds that liberal arts pur- 
sue; 

When thus the Seraph — Lo, a favourite 
band. 

The torch of science flaming in their 
hand ! 

Thro' nature's range their ardent souls 
aspire, 

Or wake to life the canvass and the lyre. 

Fixt in sublimest thought, behold them 
rise, I" 

Superior worlds unfolding to their eyes ; 

Heaven in their view unveils the eternal 
plan, 

And gives new guidance to the paths of 
man. 
See on yon darkening height bold 
Franklin tread. 

Heaven's awful thunders rolling o'er his 
head; 

Convolving clouds the billowy skies de- 
form. 

And forky flames emblaze the blackening 
storm. 



I 



JOEL BARLOW 



127 



See the descending streams around him 

burn, 
Glance on his rod and with his guidance 

turn; 120 

He bids conflicting heavens their blasts 

expire, 
Curbs the fierce blaze and holds the im- 

prison'd fire. 
No more, when folding storms the vault 

o'er-spread. 
The livid glare shall strike thy race with 

dread; 
Nor towers nor temples, shuddering with 

the sound; 
Sink in the .flames and spread destruction 

round. 
His daring toils, the threatening blast 

that wait, 
Shall teach mankind to ward the bolts 

of fate; 
The pointed steel o'er-top the ascending 

spire, 
And lead o'er trembling walls the harm- 
less fire; 130 
In his glad fame while distant worlds re- 
joice. 
Far as the lightnings shine or thunders 

raise their voice. 
See the sage Rittenhouse, with ardent 

eye, 
Lift the long tube and pierce the starry sky ; 
Clear in his view the circling systems roll, 
And broader splendors gild the central 

pole. 
He marks what laws the eccentric wan- 
derers bind. 
Copies creation in his forming mind. 
And bids, beneath his hand, in semblance 

rise, /39 

With mimic orbs, the labours of the skies. 
There wondering crouds with raptured 

eye behold 
The spangled heavens their mystic maze 

unfold ; 
While each glad sage his splendid hall 

shall grace. 
With all , the spheres that cleave the 

etherial space. 
To guide the sailor in his wandering 

way, 
See Godfrey's toits reverse the beams of 

day. 
His lifted quadrant to the eye displays 
From adverse skies the counteracting 

rays; 
And marks, as devious sails bewilder'd 

roll. 
Each nice gradation from the stedfast 

pole. 150 



See, West with glowing life the canvass 
warms ; 

His sovereign hand creates impassion'd 
forms. 

Spurns the cold critic rules, to sieze the 
heart. 

And boldly bursts the former bounds of 
Art. 

No more her powers to ancient scenes 
confined. 

He opes her liberal aid to all mankind; 

She calls to life each patriot, chief or 
sage, 

Garb'd in the dress and drapery of his 
age; 

Again bold Regulus to death returns, 

Again her falling Wolfe Britannia 
mourns; 160 

Warriors in arms to frowning combat 
move, 

And youths and virgins melt the soul to 
love ; 

Grief, rage and fear beneath his pencil 
start, 

Roll the wild eye and pour the flowing 
heart ; 

While slumbering heroes wait his waken- 
ing call. 

And distant ages fill the storied wall. 
With rival force, see Copley's pencil 
trace 

The air of action and the charms of face; 

Fair in his tints unfold the scenes of 
state. 

The Senate listens and the peers debate; 

Pale consternation every heart appalls, i7r 

In act to speak, while death-struck Chat- 
ham falls. 

His strong, deep shades a bold expression 
give, 

Raised into light the starting figures live : 

With polish'd pride the finish'd features 
boast. 

The master's art in nature's softness lost. 
Fired with the martial toils, that bathed 
in gore 

His brave companions on his native shore 

Trumbull with daring hand the scene re- 
calls. 

He shades with night Quebec's beleagur'd 
walls, ^^° 

Mid flashing flames, that round the tur- 
rets rise, 

Blind carnage raves and great Mont- 
gomery dies. 

On Charlestown's height, thro' .floods of 
rolling fire, 

Brave Warren falls, and sullen hosts re- 
tire; 



128 



AMERICAN POETRY 



While other plains of death, that gloom 

the skies, 
And chiefs immortal o'er his canvass rise. 

See rural seats of innocence and ease. 
High tufted towers and walks of waving 

trees, 
The white waves dashing on the craggy 

shores. 
Meandering streams and meads of span- 
gled flowers, 
Where nature's sons their wild excursions 

lead. 
In just design, from Taylor's pencil 

spread. 
Steward and Brown the moving por- 
trait raise, 
Each rival stroke the force of life con- 
veys; 
See circling Beauties round their tablets 

stand, 
And rise immortal from their plastic 

hand; 
Each breathing form preserves its wonted 

grace. 
And all the soul stands speaking in the 

face. 
Two kindred arts the swelling statue 

heave. 
Wake the dead wax and teach the stone 

to live. 2°o 

While the bold chissel claims the rugged 

strife. 
To rouse the sceptred marble into life; 
While Latian shrines their figured patriots 

boast, 
And gods and heroes croud each orient 

coast, 
See Wright's fair hands the livlier fire 

controul. 
In waxen forms she breathes the impas- 

sion'd soul ; 
The pencil'd tint o'er moulded substance 

glows. 
And different powers the unrivall'd art 

compose. 
To equal fame ascends thy tuneful 

throng, 
The boast of genius and the pride of 

song; 210 

Warm'd with the scenes that grace their 

various clime. 
Their lays shall triumph o'er the lapse of 

time. 
With keen-eyed glance thro' nature's 

walks to pierce, 
With all the powers and every charm of 

verse, 



Each science opening in his ample mind. 
His fancy glowing and his taste refined. 
See Trumbull lead the train. His skillful 

hand 
Hurls the keen darts of Satire thro' the 

land; 
Pride, knavery, dullness, feel his mortal 

stings, 
And listening virtue triumphs while he 

sings; ^ 

Proud Albion's sons, victorious now no 

more, 
In guilt retiring from the wasted shore,_ 
Strive their curst cruelties to hide in 

vain — 
The world shall learn them from his 

deathless strain. 
On glory's wing to raise the ravish'd 

soul, 
Bej'ond the bounds of earth's benighted 

pole. 
For daring Dwight the Epic Muse sublime 
Hails her new empire on the western 

clime. 
Fired with the themes by seers seraphic 

sung. 
Heaven in his eye, and rapture on his 

tongue, 230 

His voice divine revives the promised land, 
The Heaven-taught Leader and the chosen 

band. 
In Hanniel's fate, proud faction finds her 

doom, 
Ai's midnight flames light nations to their 

tomb, 
In visions bright supernal joys are given. 
And all the dread futurities of heaven. 
While freedom's cause his patriot bosom 

warms. 
In counsel sage, nor inexpert in arrns. 
See Humphreys glorious from the field 

retire. 
Sheathe the glad sword and string the 

sounding lyre; 240 

That lyre which, erst, in hours of dark 

despair, 
Roused the sad realms to urge the un- 

finish'd war. 
O'er fallen friends, with all the strength 

of woe. 
His heart-felt sighs in moving numbers 

flow ; 
His country's wrongs, her duties, dangers, 

praise, 
Fire his full soul and animate his lays; 
Immortal Washington with joy shall own 
So fond a favourite and so great a son. 

1787. 



I 



JOEL BARLOW 



129 



From Book IX i 

. . . Now, fair beneath his view, the 

important age 
Leads the bold actors on a broader stage; 
When, clothed majestic in the robes of 

state, 
Moved by one voice, in general council 

meet 
The fathers of all empires : 'twas the 

place, 
Near the first footsteps of the human 

race ; 
Where wretched men, first wandering 

from their God, 
Began their feuds and led their tribes 

abroad. 
In this mid region, this delightful clime, 
Hear'd by whole realms, to brave the 

wrecks of time, i° 

A spacious structure rose, sublimely great. 
The last resort, the unchanging scene of 

state. 
On rocks of adamant the walls ascend, 
Tall columns heave, and Parian arches 

bend; 
High o'er the golden roofs, the rising 

spires, 
Far in the concave meet the solar fires; 
Four blazing fronts, with gates unfolding 

high. 
Look, with immortal splendor, round the 

sky: 
Hither the delegated sires ascend. 
And all the cares of every clime attend. 20 
As the fair first-born messengers of hea- 
ven. 
To whom the care of stars and suns is 

given. 
When the last circuit of their winding 

spheres 
Hath finish'd time and mark'd their sum 

of years. 
From all the bounds of space (their la- 
bours done) 
Shall wing their triumphs to the eternal 

throne ; 
Each, from his far dim sky, illumes the 

road, 

^ The Vision resumed and extended ovpr the 
whole earth. Present character of different 
nations. Future progress of society with respect 
to commerce, discoveries, the opening of canals, 
philosophical, medical and political knowledge, 
the assimilation and final harmony of all lan- 
guages. Cause of the first confusion of tongues 
explained, and the effect of their union described. 
View of a general Council of all nations as- 
sembled to establish the political harmony of 
mankind. Conclusion. (The "Argument" as 
supplied by the Author.) The Conclusion is 
here quoted. 



And sails and centres tow'rd the mount 

of God; 
There, in mid heaven, their honour'd 
seats to spread, 

And ope the untarnish'd volumes of the 
dead: 3° 

So, from all climes of earth, where na- 
tions rise. 

Or lands or oceans bound the incumbent 
skies, 

Wing'd with unwonted speed, the gather- 
ing throng 

In ships and chariots, shape their course 
along ; 

Till, wide o'er earth and sea, they win 
their way, 

Where the bold structure flames against 
the day; 

There, hail the splendid seat by Heaven 
assign'd. 

To hear and give the counsels of man- 
kind. 

Now the dread concourse, in the ample 
dome, 

Pour thro' the arches and their seats as- 
sume ; 40 

Far as the extended eye can range around. 

Or the deep trumpet's solemn voice re- 
sound. 

Long rows of reverend sires, sublime, 
extend. 

And cares of worlds on every brow 
suspend. 

High in the front, for manlier virtues 
known, 

A sire elect, in peerless grandeur, shone; 

And rising oped the universal cause, 

To give each realm its limit and its laws ; 

Bid the last breath of dire contention 
cease. 

And bind all regions in the leagues of 
peace, so 

Bid one great empire, with extensive 
sway. 

Spread with the sun and bound the walks 
of day, 

One centred system, one all-ruling soul. 

Live thro' the parts, and regulate the 
whole. 
Here, said the Angel with a blissful 
smile. 

Behold the fruits of thy unwearied toil. 

To yon far regions of descending day. 

Thy swelling pinions led the untrodden 
way. 

And taught mankind adventurous deeds 
to dare. 

To trace new seas and peaceful empires 
rear ; 60 



130 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Hence, round the globe, their rival sails, 

unfurl'd, 
Have waved, at last, in union o'er the 

world. 
Let thy delighted soul no more complain. 
Of dangers braved and griefs endured in 

vain, 
Of courts insidious, envy's poison'd stings. 
The loss of empire and the frown of 

kings ; 
While these bright scenes thy glowing 

thoughts compose, 
To spurn the vengeance of insulting foes; 
And all the joys, descending ages gain, 
Repay thy labours and remove thy pain. 7o 

1787. 



THE HASTY PUDDING 
Canto I 

Ye Alps audacious, through the heavens 

that rise. 
To cramp the day and hide me from 

the skies; 
Ye Gallic flags, that o'er their heights 

unfurled, 
Bear death to kings, and freedom to the 

world, 
I sing not you. A softer theme I choose, 
A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse, 
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire 
The purest frenzy of poetic fire. 

Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel'd. 
Who hurl your thunders round the epic 

field; _ _ _ 10 

Nor ye who strain your midnight throats 

to sing 
Joys that the vineyard and the still-house 

bring; 
Or on some distant fair your notes em- 
ploy. 
And speak of raptures that you ne'er en- 
joy. 
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I 

feel. 
My morning incense, and my evening 

meal. 
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, 

dear bowl. 
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul. 
The milk beside thee, smoking from the 

kine, 
Its substance mingle, married in with 

thine, 20 

Shall cool and temper thy superior heat. 
And save the pains of blowing while I eat. 



Oh ! could the smooth, the emblematic 

song 
Flow like thy genial juices o'er my 

tongue. 
Could those mild morsels in my numbers 

chime. 
And, as they roll in substance, roll in 

rhyme. 
No more thy awkward unpoetic name 
Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy 

fame ; 
But rising grateful to the accustom'd ear, 
All bards should catch it, and all realms 

revere ! 30 

Assist me first with pious toil to trace 
Through wrecks of time, thy lineage and 

thy race ; 
Declare what lovely squaw, in days of 

yore, 
(Ere great Columbus sought thy native 

shore) 
First gave thee to the world; her works 

of fame 
Have lived indeed, but lived without a 

name. 
Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days. 
First learn'd with stones to crack the well 

dried maize, 
Through the rough sieve to shake the 

golden shower. 
In boiling water stir the yellow flour : 40 
The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stirr'd 

with haste. 
Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, 
Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim. 
Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface 

swim; 
The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, 
And the whole mass its true consistence 

takes. 
Could but her sacred name, unknown 

so long. 
Rise, like her labors, to the son of song. 
To her, to them, I'd consecrate my lays. 
And blow her pudding with the breath of 

praise. 5° 

If 'twas Oella whom I sang before 
I here ascribe her one great virtue more. 
Not through the rich Peruvian realms 

alone 
The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should 

be known, 
But o'er the world's wide clime should 

live secure. 
Far as his rays extend, as long as they 

endure. 
Dear Hasty Pudding, what unpromised 

joy 
Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy ! 



J 



JOEL BARLOW 



131 



Doom'd o'er the world through devious 

paths to roam, 
Each clime my country, and each house 

my home, 60 

My soul is soothed, my cares have found 

an end, 
I greet my long lost, unforgotten friend. 
For thee through Paris, that corrupted 

town, 
How long in vain I wandered up and 

down. 
Where shameless Bacchus, with his 

drenching hoard. 
Cold from his cave usurps the morning 

board. 
London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea ; 
No Yankee there can lisp the name of 

thee; 
The uncouth word, a libel on the town, 
Would call a proclamation from the 

crown. 70 

From climes oblique, that fear the sun's 

full rays, 
Chill'd in their fogs, exclude the generous 

maize : 
A grain, whose rich, luxuriant growth 

requires 
Short gentle showers, and bright ethereal 

fires. 
But here, though distant from our na- 
tive shore, 
With mutual glee, we meet and laugh 

once more. 
The same ! I know thee by that yellow 

face, 
That strong complexion of true Indian 

race. 
Which time can never change, nor soil 

impair, 
Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid 

air ; 80 

For endless years, through every mild 

domain. 
Where grows the maize, there thou art 

sure to reign. 
But man, more fickle, the bold license 

claims, 
In different realms to give thee different 

names. 
Thee the soft nations round the warm 

Levant 
Polenta call, the French of course Polente. 
E'en in thy native regions, how I blush 
To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee 

Mush! 
On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic 

spawn 
Insult and eat thee by the name Sup- 
pawn, 9" 



All spurious appellations, void of truth; 
I've better known thee from my earliest 

youth, 
Thy name is Hasty Pudding! thus my sire 
Was wont to greet thee fuming from his 

fire; 
And while he argued in thy just defence 
With logic clear he thus explain'd the 

sense: — 
"In haste the boiling cauldron o'er the 

blaze. 
Receives and cooks the ready powder'd 

maize ; 
In haste 'tis served, and then in equal 

haste. 
With cooling milk, we make the sweet 

repast. 10° 

No carving to be done, no knife to grate 
The tender ear, and wound the stony 

plate; 
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip. 
And taught with art the yielding mass to 

dip. 
By frequent journeys to the bowl well 

stored. 
Perform the hasty honors of the board." 
Such is thy name, significant and clear, 
A name, a sound to every Yankee dear. 
But most to me, whose heart and palate 

chaste 
Preserve my pure hereditary taste. "" 
There are who strive to stamp with 

disrepute 
The luscious food, because it feeds the 

brute ; 
In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while 

gaudy prigs 
Compare thy nursling, man, to pamper'd 

. pigs; 
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar 

jest. 
Nor fear to share thy bounties with the 

beast. 
What though the generous cow gives me 

to quaff 
The milk nutritious: am I then a calf? 
Or can the genius of the noisy swine. 
Though nursed on pudding, claim a kin 

to mine? 120 

Sure the sweet song, I fashion to thy 

praise. 
Runs more melodious than the notes they 

raise. 
My song resounding in its grateful glee. 
No merit claims : I praise myself in thee. 
My father loved thee through his length 

of days ! 
For thee his fields were shaded o'er with 

maize ; 



132 



AMERICAN POETRY 



From thee what health, what vigor he 

possess'd, 
Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest; 
Thy constellation ruled my natal morn, 
And all my bones were made of Indian 

corn. 130 

Delicious grain ! whatever form it take, 
To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, 
In every dish 'tis welcome still to me. 
But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in 

thee. 
Let the green succotash with thee con- 
tend, 
Let beans and corn their sweetest juices 

blend. 
Let butter drench them in its yellow tide. 
And a long slice of bacon grace their 

side; 
Not all the plate, how famed soe'er it be. 
Can please my palate like a bowl of 

thee. 
Some talk of Hoc-Cake, fair Virginia's 

pride, hi 

Rich Johnny-Cake, this mouth has often 

tried; 
Both please me well, their virtues much 

the same, 
Alike their fabric, as allied their fame. 
Except in dear New England, where the 

last 
. Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste. 
To give it sweetness and improve the 

taste. 
But place them all before me, smoking 

hot. 
The big, round dumpling, rolling from 

the pot. 
The pudding of the bag, whose quivering 

breast, 'So 

With suet lined, leads on the Yankee feast. 
The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty 

sides 
A belly soft the pulpy apple hides; 
The yellow bread whose face like amber 

glows. 
And all of Indian that the bake-pan 

knows, — 
You tempt me not — my fav'rite greets 

my eyes. 
To that loved bowl my spoon by instinct 

flies. 

Cakto II 

To mix the food by vicious rules of 
art, 
To kill the stomach, and to sink the 
heart 



To make mankind to social virtue sour, 160 

Cram o'er each dish, and be what they 
devour; 

For this the kitchen muse first fram'd her 
book. 

Commanding sweats to stream from every 
cook; 

Children no more their antic gambols 
tried. 

And friends to physic wonder'd why they 
died. 
Not so the Yankee — his abundant feast, 

With simples furnish'd and with plain- 
ness drest, 

A numerous offspring gathers round the 
board. 

And cheers alike the servant and the lord ; 

Whose well-bought hunger prompts the 
joyous taste 170 

And health attends them from the short 
repast. 
While the full pail rewards the milk- 
maid's toil. 

The mother sees the morning caldron boil; 

To stir the pudding next demands their 
care; 

To spread the table and the bowls pre- 
pare; 

To feed the household as their portions 
cool 

And send them all to labor or to school. 
Yet may the simplest dish some rules 
impart. 

For nature scorns not all the aids of art. 

E'en Hasty Pudding, purest of all food, '8° 

May still be bad, indifferent, or goo-l, 

As sage experience the short process 
guides, 

Or want of skill, or want of care presides. 

Whoe'er would form it on the surest plan. 

To rear the child and long sustain the 
man; 

To shield the morals while it mends the 
size. 

And all the powers of every food supplies. 

Attend the lesson that the muse shall 
bring. 

Suspend your spoons, and listen while I 
sing. 
But since, O man ! thy life and health 
demand 190 

Not food alone but labor from thy hand. 

First in the field, beneath the sun's strong 
rays, 

Ask of thy mother earth the needful 
maize; 

She loves the race that courts her yield- 
ing soil, 

And gives her bounties to the sons of toil. 



i 



JOEL BARLOW 



133 



When now the ox, obedient to thy call, 

Repays the loan that fiU'd the winter stall, 

Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain, 

And plant in measur'd hills the golden 
grain. 

But when the tender germ begins to 
shoot, 200 

And the green spire declares the sprout- 
ing root, 

Then guard your nursling from each 
greedy foe, 

The insidious worm, the all-devouring 
crow. 

A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire, 

Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm 
retire ; 

The feather'd robber with his hungry maw 

Swift flies the field before your man of 
straw, 

A frightful image, such as school-boys 
bring. 

When met to burn the pope or hang the 
king. 
Thrice in the season, through each ver- 
dant row 210 

Wield the strong ploughshare and the 
faithful hoe: 

The faithful hoe, a double task that takes, 

To till the summer corn, and roast the 
winter cakes. 
Slow springs the blade, while check'd 
by chilling rains. 

Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains; 

But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land, 

Then start the juices, then the roots ex- 
pand ; 

Then, like a column of Corinthian mould. 

The stalk struts upward and the leaves 
unfold; 

The busy branches all the ridges fill, 220 

Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill 
to hill. 

Here cease to vex them, all your cares 
are done : 

Leave the last labors to the parent sun; 

Beneath his genial smiles, the well-drest 
field. 

When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall 
yield. 
Now the strong foliage bears the stand- 
ards high, 

And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; 

The suckling ears their silky fringes bend, 

And pregnant grown, their swelling coats 
distend ; 

The loaded stalk, while still the burthen 
grows, 230 

O'erhangs the space that runs between the 
rows ; 



High as a hop-field waves the silent 

grove, 
A safe retreat for little thefts of love. 
When the pledged roasting-ears invite 

the maid. 
To meet her swain beneath the new- 

form'd shade; 
His generous hand unloads the cumbrous 

hill, 
And the green spoils her ready basket 

bill ; 
Small compensation for the twofold Miss, 
The promised wedding, and the present 

kiss. 
Slight depredations these; but now the 

moon 240 

Calls from his hallow tree the sly racoon ; 
And while by night he bears his prize 

away, 
The bolder squirrel labors through the 

day. 
Both thieves alike, but provident of time, 
A virtue rare, that almost hides their 

crime. 
Then let them steal the little stores they 

can. 
And fill their gran'ries from the toils of 

man; 
We've one advantage,, where they take no 

part, — 
With all their wiles they ne'er have found 

the art 
To boil the Hasty Pudding; here we 

shine 250 

Superior far to tenants of the pine; 
This envied boon to man shall still belong, 
Unshared by them, in substance or in 

song. 
At last the closing season browns the 

plain. 
And ripe October gathers in the grain; 
Deep loaded carts the spacious corn-house 

fill. 
The sack distended marches to the mill; 
The lab'ring mill beneath the burthen 

groans 
And showers the future pudding from 

the stones ; 
Till the glad housewife greets the pow- 

der'd gold, 260 

And the new crop exterminates the old. 
Ah, who can sing what every wight must 

feel. 
The joy that enters with the bag of meal, 
A general jubilee pervades the house. 
Wakes every child and gladdens every 

mouse. 



134 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Canto III 

The days grow short ; but though the 
falling sun 

To the glad swain proclaims his day's 
work done, 

Night's pleasing shades his various tasks 
prolong, 

And yield new subjects to my various 
song. 

For now, the corn-house fill'd, the harvest 
home, -70 

The invited neighbors to the husking 
come ; 

A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, 
and play. 

Unite their charms to chase the hours 
away. 
Where the huge heap lies centred in the 
hall, 

The lamp suspended from the cheerful 
wall. 

Brown corn- fed nymphs, and strong hard- 
handed beaux. 

Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows, 

Assume their seats, the solid mass attack; 

The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs 
crack ; 

The song, the laugh, alternate notes re- 
sound, 280 

And the sweet cider trips in silence round. 
The laws of husking every wight can 
tell ; 

And sure no laws he ever keeps so well : 

For each red ear a general kiss he gains. 

With each smut ear he smuts the luckless 
swains ; 

But when to some sweet maid a prize is 
cast, 

Red as her lips, and taper as her waist, 

She walks the round, and culls one fa- 
vored beau. 

Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow. 

Various the sport, as are the wits and 
brains 290 

Of well-pleased lassies and contending 
swains; 

Till the vast mound of corn is swept away. 

And he that gets the last ear wins the 
day. 
Meanwhile the housewife urges all her 
care, 

The well-earn'd feast to hasten and pre- 
pare. 

The sifted meal already waits her hand, 

The milk is strained, the bowls in order 
Stand, 



The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that 

takes 
The headlong stream that o'er the mill- 
dam breaks) 
Foams, roars, and rages with incessant 

toils, 300 

So the vex'd caldron rages, roars and 

boils. 
First with clean salt, she seasons well 

the food, 
Then strews the flour, and thickens all 

the flood. 
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it 

stand ; 
To stir it well demands a stronger hand; 
The husband takes his turn : and round 

and round 
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crown'd; 
When to the board the thronging buskers 

pour, 
And take their seats as at the corn before. 
I leave them to their feast. There still 

belong 310 

More useful matters to my faithful song. 
For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded 

yet, 
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should 

be ate. 
Some with molasses grace the luscious 

treat, 
And mix, like bards, the useful and the 

sweet, 
A wholesome dish, and well deserving 

praise, 
A great resource in those bleak wintry 

days. 
When the chill'd earth lies buried deep 

in snow, 
And raging Boreas dries the shivering 

cow. 
Blest cow ! thy praise shall still my 

notes employ, 320 

Great source of health, the only source of 

joy; 
Mother of Egypt's god, — but sure, for me, 
Were I to leave my God, I'd worship 

thee. 
How oft thy teats these pious hands have 

press'd ! 
How oft thy bounties prove my only 

feast ! 
How oft I've fed thee with my favourite 

grain ! 
And roar'd, like thee, to see thy children 

slain ! 
Ye swains who know her various worth 

to prize, 
Ah ! house her well from winter's angry 

skies. 






JOEL BARLOW 



135 



Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness 

cheer, 330 

Corn from your crib, and mashes from 

your beer; 
When spring returns, she'll well acquit the 

loan, 
And nurse at once your infants and her 

own. 
Milk then with pudding I should al- 
ways choose; 
To this in future I confine my muse. 
Will she in haste some further hints 

unfold, 
Good for the young, nor useless to the 

old. 
First in your bowl the milk abundant take. 
Then drop with care along the silver lake 
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will 

hide 340 

Their little bulk beneath the swelling 

tide; 
But when their growing mass no more 

can sink. 
When the soft island looms above the 

brink, 
Then check your hand; you've got the 

portion due, 
So taught my sire, and what he taught is 

true. 
There is a choice in spoons. Though 

small appear 
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear. 
The deep bowl'd Gallic spoon, contrived 

to scoop 
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, 
Performs not well in those substantial 

things, 350 



Those mass adhesive to the metal clings ; 
Where the strong labial muscles must em- 
brace, 
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow 

space. 
With ease to enter and discharge the 

freight, 
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate, 
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, 

the size, 
A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. 
Experienced feeders can alone impart 
A rule so much above the lore of art. 
These tuneful lips that thousand spoons 
have tried, 360 

With just precision could the point de- 
cide. 
Though not in song the muse but poorly 

shines 
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines; 
Yet the true form, as near as she can 

tell, 
Is that small section of a goose egg shell, 
Which in two equal portions shall divide 
The distance from the centre to the side. 
Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin: — 
Like the free Frenchman, from your joy- 
ous chin 
Suspend the ready napkin ; or like me. 
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your 
knee ; 371 

Just in the zenith your wise head project. 
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct, 
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall. 
The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch 
them all ! 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

(1795-1820) 



{The text is taken from "The Culprit Fay and 
Other Poems," New York, 1836.) 

THE AMERICAN FLAG 



And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 



When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there. 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white, 
With streakings of the morning light; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle bearer down, lo 

And gave into his mighty hand. 
The symbol of her chosen land. 



Majestic monarch of the cloud. 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumpings loud 

And see the lightning lances driven. 
When strive the warriors of the storm. 

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven. 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, 20 
To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
To ward away the battle stroke, 
And bid i-ts blendings shine afar. 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory! 



Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale. 

Sweeps darkly round the belHed sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 

Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 5° 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendours fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 



Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 

By angel hands to valour given ; 
The stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
For ever float that standard sheet ! 
Where breathes the foe but falls before 
us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet 6° 
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 
us? 

The New York Evening Post, May 
29, 1819. 

TO A FRIEND 

"You damn me with faint praise." 



Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. 

The sign of hope and triumph high, 
W^hen speaks the signal trumpet tone. 

And the long line comes gleaming on. 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 3" 

Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 

To where thy sky-born glories burn; 
And as his springing steps advance, 

Catch war and vengeance from the 
glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 

Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 4° 



Yes, faint was my applause and cold 
my praise. 

Though soul was glowing in each pol- 
ished line ; 

But nobler subjects claim the poet's lays, 

A brighter glory waits a muse like thine. 

Let amorous fools in love-sick meas- 
ure pine; 

Let Strangford whimper on, in fancied 
pain. 

And leave to Moore his rose leaves and 
his vine; 

Be thine the task a higher crown to 
gain, 
The envied wreath that decks the patriot's 
holy strain. 9 



136 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



137 



II 

Yet not in proud triumphal song alone, 
Or martial ode, or sad sepulchral dirge. 
There needs no voice to make our 

glories known; 
There needs no voice the warrior's soul 

to urge 
To tread the bounds of nature's stormy 

verge ; 
Columbia still shall win the battle's 

prize. 
But be it thine to bid her mind emerge 
To strike her harp, until its soul arise 
From the neglected shade, where low in 

dust it lies. 



Are there no scenes to touch the poet's 

soul? 
No deeds of arms to wake the lordly 

strain? 20 

Shall Hudson's billows unregarded roll? 
Has Warren fought, Montgomery died 

in vain? 
Shame ! that while every mountain 

stream and plain 
Hath theme for truth's proud voice or 

fancy's wand. 
No native bard the patriot harp hath 

ta'en. 
But left to minstrels of a foreign strand 
To sing the beauteous scenes of nature's 

loveliest, land. 

IV 

Oh ! for a seat on Appalachia's brow, 
That I might scan the glorious prospect 

round. 
Wild waving woods, and rolling floods 

below, 30 

Smooth level glades and fields with 

grain embrown'd. 
High heaving hills, with tufted forests 

crown'd. 
Rearing their tall tops to the heaven's 

blue dome. 
And emerald isles, like banners green 

unwound. 
Floating along the lake, while round 

them roam 
Bright helms of billowy blue and plumes 

of dancing foam. 



Beneath the kelpie's fang no traveller 

bleeds, 
Nor gory vampyre taints our holy earth, 
Nor spectres stalk to frighten harmless 

mirth. 
Nor tortured demon howls adown the 

gale ; 
Fair reason checks these monsters in 

their birth. 
Yet have we lay of love and horrid tale 
Would dim the manliest eye and make 

the bravest pale. 

VI 

Where is the stony eye that hath not 

shed 
Compassion's heart-drops o'er the sweet 

McRea? 
Through midnight's wilds by savage 

bandits led, 
"Her heart is sad — her love is far 

away !" 
Elate that lover waits the promised 

day so 

When he shall clasp his blooming bride 

again — 
Shine on, sweet visions ! dreams of rap- 
ture, play ! 
Soon the cold corse of her he loved 

in vain 
Shall blight his withered heart and fire 

his frenzied brain. 

VII 

Romantic Wyoming ! could none be 

found 
Of all that rove thy Eden groves 

among. 
To wake a native harp's untutored 

sound. 
And give thy tale of wo the voice of 

song? 
Oh! if description's cold and nerveless 

tongue 
From stranger harps such hallowed 

strains could call, 6° 

How doubly sweet the descant wild had 

rung, 
From one who, lingering round thy 

ruined wall, 
Had plucked thy mourning flowers and 

wept thy timeless fall. 



'Tis true no fairies haunt our verdant 

meads. 
No grinning imps deform our blazing 

hearth ; 



The Huron chief escaped from foemen 

nigh, 
His frail bark launches on Niagara's 

tides, 



138 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"Pride in his port, defiance in his eye," 
Singing his song of death the warrior 

glides; 
In vain they yell along the river sides, 
In vain the arrow from its sheaf is torn, 
Calm to his doom the willing victim 

rides, 7o 

And, till adown the roaring torrent 

borne, 
Mocks them with gesture proud, and 

laughs their rage to scorn. 



But if the charms of daisied hill and 

vale, 
And rolling flood, and towering rock 

sublime. 
If warrior deed or peasant's lowly tale 
Of love or wo should fail to wake the 

rhyme. 
If to the wildest heights of song you 

clirhb, 
(Tho' some who know you less, might 

cry, beware!) 
Onward ! I say — your strains shall con- 
quer time; 
Give your bright genius wing, and hope 

to share ^° 

Imagination's worlds — the ocean, earth, 

and air. 



Arouse, my' friend — let vivid fancy soar, 
Look with creative eye on nature's face. 
Bid airy sprites in wild Niagara roar. 
And view in every field a fairy race. 
Spur thy good Pacolet to speed apace, 
And spread a train of nymphs on every 

shore; 
Or if thy muse would woo a ruder 

grace, 
The Indian's evil Manitou's explore, 
And rear the wondrous tale of legendary 

lore. 9° 



Away! to Susquehannah's utmost 
springs. 

Where, throned in mountain mist, Are- 
ouski reigns, 

Shrouding in lurid clouds his plumeless 
wings. 

And sternly sorrowing o'er his tribes re- 
mains ; 

His was the arm, like comet' ere it 
wanes 

That tore the streamy lightnings from 
the skies. 



And smote the mammoth of the south- 
ern plains; 

Wild with dismay the Creek affrighted 
flies. 
While in triumphant pride Kanawa's 
eagles rise. 

XII 

Or westward far, where dark Miami 

wends, ^°° 

Seek that fair spot as yet to fame 

unknown ; 
Where, when the vesper dew of heaven 

descends, 
Soft music breathes in many a melting 

tone, 
At times so sadly sweet it seems the 

moan 
Of some poor Ariel penanced in the 

rock ; 
Anon a louder burst — a scream ! a 



groan 



And now amid the tempest's reeling 
shock. 
Gibber, and shriek, and wail — and fiend- 
like laugh and mock. 



Or climb the Pallisado's lofty brows, 

Where dark Omana waged the war of 
hell, no 

Till, waked to wrath, the mighty spirit 
rose 

And pent the demons in their prison 
cell; 

Full on their head the uprooted moun- 
tain fell. 

Enclosing all within its horrid womb 

Straight from the teeming earth the 
waters swell, 

And pillared rocks arise in cheerless 
gloom 
Around the drear abode — their last eter- 
nal tomb ! 



Be these your future themes — no more 

resign 
The soul of song to laud your lady's 

eyes; 
Go ! kneel a worshipper at nature's 

shrine ! 120 

For you her fields are green, and fair 

her skies ! 
For you her rivers flow, her hills arise ! 
And will you scorn them all, to pour 

forth tame 
And heartless lays of feigned or fancied 

sighs? 






JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



139 



Still will you cloud the muse ? nor blush 
, for shame 

iTo cast away renown, and hide your head 
from fame? 



In "Culprit Fay, etc.," 1836. 



THE CULPRIT FAY 

"My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo! 
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales 
I see old fairy land's miraculous show! 

Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales. 
Her Ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the 
breeze. 
And fairies, swarming . . ." 

Tennant's Anster Fair. 



*Tis the middle watch of a summer's 

night — 
The earth is dark, but the heavens are 

bright ; 
Nought is seen in the vault on high 
But the moon, and the stars, and the 

cloudless sky, 
And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 
A river of light on the welkin blue. 
The moon looks down on old Cronest, 
She mellows the shades on his shaggy 

breast. 
And seems his huge gray form to throw 
In a silver cone on the wave below; i° 
His sides are broken by spots of shade, 
By the walnut bough and the cedar made. 
And through their clustering branches 

dark 
Glimrhers and dies the firefly's spark — 
Like starry twinkles that momently break 
Through the rifts of the gathering tem- 
pest's rack. 



I 



The stars are on the moving stream. 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnished length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below; 20 

The winds are whist, and the owl is still, 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. 
And nought is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer 

- shrill 

Of the gauze-winged katy-did; 
j A.nd the plaint of the wailing whip-poor- 
I will, 
^Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, 
iver a note of wail and wo. 

Till morning spreads her rosy wings, 
^nd earth and sky in her glances glow. 



Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: 31 
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; 
He has counted them all with click and 

stroke, 
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak. 
And he has awakened the sentry elve 

Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, 
To bid him ring the hour of twelve. 

And call the fays to their revelry. 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling 

bell— 
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly 
shell ; — ) 40 

"Midnight comes, and all is well! 
Hither, hither, wing your way. 
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." ' 

IV 

They come from beds of lichen green, 
They creep from the mullen's velvet 
screen ; 
Some on the backs of beetles fly 
From the silver tops of moon-touched 
trees, 
Where they swung in their cobweb 
hammocks high. 
And rock'd about in the evening breeze; 
Some from the hum-bird's downy 
nest — 50 

They had driven him out by elfin power. 
And pillowed on plumes of his rain- 
bow breast. 
Had slumbered there till the charmed 

hour; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock. 
With glittering ising-stars inlaid; 

And some had opened the four-o'clock. 
And stole within its purple shade. 

And now they throng the moonlight 
glade, - 
Above — below — on every side, 

Their little minim forms arrayed 60 
In the. tricksy pomp of fairy pride! 



They come not now to print the lea. 
In freak and dance around the tree. 
Or at the mushroom board to sup. 
And drink the dew from the buttercup; — 
A scene of sorrow waits them now, 
For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; 
He has loved an earthly maid. 
And left for her his woodland shade; 
He has lain upon her lip of dew, 7° 

And sunned him in her eye of blue, 
Fann'd her cheek with his wing of air, 
Played in the ringlets of her hair. 



140 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And, nestling on her snowy breast, 
Forgot the hly-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the elfin court must haste away: — 
And now they stand expectant there, 

To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. 



VI 

The throne was reared upon the grass 8° 
Of spice-wood and of sassafras; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Hung the burnished canopy — 
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 

On his brow the crown imperial shone. 
The prisoner Fay was at his feet. 

And his peers were ranged around the 
throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air, 9" 

He looked around and calmly spoke; 
His brow was grave and his eye severe. 

But his voice in a softened accent 
broke : 

VII 

"Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark, 

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain, 
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and 
dark, 
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly 
stain — 
Thou hast suUied thine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye 
Thou has scorned our dread decree, ^o'^ 
And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, 
But well I know her sinless mind 
Is pure as the angel forms above. 
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, 
Such as a spirit well might love; 
F"airy! had she spot or taint, 
Bitter had been thy punishment. 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; 
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings; 
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell i^o 
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede; 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim. 
Your jailer a spider huge and grim. 
Amid the carrion bodies to lie. 
Of the worm, and the bug, and the mur- 
dered fly : 
These it had been your lot to bear, 
Had a stain been found on the earthly 

fair. 
Now list, and mark our mild decree — ^^o 
Fairy, this your doom must be: 



VIII 

"Thou shalt seek the beach of sand 
Where the water bounds the elnn land, 
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright 

moonshine. 
Then dart the ghstening arch below, 
And catch a drop from his silver bow. 
The water-sprites will wield their arms 

And dash around, with roar and rave, 
And vain are the woodland spirits' 
charms, 130 

They are the imps that rule the wave. 
Yet trust thee in thy single might. 
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, 
Thou shalt Virin the warlock fight. 



IX 

"If the spray-bead gem be won. 

The stain of thy wing is washed away. 
But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye; 
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and 

dark. 
Thou must re-illumine its spark. 140 

Mount thy steed and spur him high 
To the heaven's blue canopy; 
And when thou seest a shooting star, 
Follow it fast, and follow it far — 
The last faint spark of its burning train 
Shall light the elfin lamp again. 
Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay; 
Hence! to the water-side, away!" 



The goblin marked his monarch well; 

He spake not, but he bowed him low, 
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell, ^51 

And turned him round in act to go. 
The way is long, he cannot fly. 

His soiled wing has lost its power. 
And he winds adown the mountain highj 

For many a sore and weary hour. 
Through dreary beds of tangled fern. 
Through groves of nightshade dark and 

dern. 
Over the grass and through the brake, 
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake ; 

Novir o'er the violet's azure flush i^i 
He skips along in lightsome mood; 

And now he thrids the bramble bush. 
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. 
He has leapt the bog, he has pierced the 

briar. 
He has swum the brook, and waded the 
mire, 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



141 



Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew 

weak, 
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. 
He had fallen to the ground outright, 
For rugged and dim was his onward 
track, 170 

But there came a spotted toad in sight. 
And he laughed as he jumped upon her 
back; 
He bridled her mouth with a silk-weed 
twist ; 
He lashed her sides with an osier 
thong ; 
And now through evening's dewy mist, 

With leap and spring they bound along, 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past, 
And the beach of sand is reached at last. 

XI 

Soft and pale is the moony beam, 
Moveless still the glassy stream, 180 

The wave is clear, the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light. 

In murmurings faint and distant moans ; 
And ever afar in the silence deep 
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's 

leap, 
And the bend of his graceful bow is 

seen — 
A glittering arch of silver sheen. 
Spanning the wave of burnished blue, 
And dripping with gems of the river 

dew. 190 

XII 

The elfin cast a glance around. 

As he lighted down from his courser 
toad. 
Then round his breast his wings he 
wound. 
And close to the river's brink he 
strode ; 
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a 
prayer. 
Above his head his arms he threw, 
Then tossed a tiny curve in air. 

And headlong plunged in the waters blue. 



Up sprung the spirits of the waves, ^99 
From sea-silk beds in their coral caves. 
With snail-plate armour snatched in haste. 
They speed their way through the liquid 

waste ; 
Some are rapidly borne along 
On the mailed shrimp or the prickly 

prong. 
Some on the blood-red leeches glide, 
Some on the stony star-fish ride, 



Some on the back of the lancing squab, 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab; 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings — 210 
They cut the wave with the living oar 
And hurry on to the moonlight shore, 
To guard their realms and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading Fay. 

XIV 

Fearlessly he skims along. 

His hope is high, and his limbs are strong. 

He spreads his arms like the swallow's 

wing. 
And throws his feet with a froglike fling; 
His locks of gold on the waters shine, 219 

At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise. 
His back gleams bright above the brine. 

And the wake-line foam behind him lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide; 
Their warriors come in swift career 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold, 
The quarl's long arms are round him 

roll'd. 
The prickly prong has pierced his skin. 
And the squab has thrown his javelin, 230 
The gritty star has rubbed him raw. 
And the crab has struck with his giant 

claw; 
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with 

pain. 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight. 
Fairy ! nought is left but flight. 



He turned him round and fled amain 
With hurry and dash to the beach again; 
He twisted over from side to side, 
And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide. 240 
The strokes of his plunging arms are 

fleet, 
And with all his might he flings his feet, 
But the water-sprites are round him still, 
To cross his path and work him ill. 
They bade the wave before him rise; 
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, 
And they stunned his ears with the scal- 
lop stroke. 
With the porpoise heave and the drum- 
fish croak. 
Oh ! but a weary wight was he 
When he reached the foot of the dog- 
wood tree ; 250 
Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore, 
He laid him down on the sandy shore; 



142 



AMERICAN POETRY 



He blessed the force of the charmed line, 
And he banned the water-goblins' spite, 

For he saw around in the sweet moon- 
shine. 

Their little wee faces above the brine, 

Giggling and laughing with all ther 
might 

At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight. 



Soon he gathered the balsam dew 
From the sorrel leaf and the henbane 
bud ; 260 

Over each wound the balm he drew. 
And with cobweb lint he stanched the 
blood. 
The mild west wind was soft and low. 
It cooled the heat of his burning brow. 
And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, 
As he drank the juice of the cal'mus root; 
And now he treads the fatal shore, 
As fresh and vigorous as before. 



Wrapped in musing stands the sprite: 
'Tis the middle wane of night, 270 

His task is hard, his way is far, 
But he must do his errand right 

Ere dawning mounts her beamy car. 
And rolls her chariot wheels of light; 
And vain are the spells of fairy-land, 
He must work with a human hand. 



He cast a saddened look around. 

But he felt new joy his bosom swell. 
When, glittering on the shadowed ground, 

He saw a purple muscle shell; 280 

Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
He heaved at the stern and he heaved at 

the bow, 
And he pushed her over the yielding sand. 
Till he came to the verge of the haunted 

land. 
She was as lovely a pleasure boat . 

As ever fairy had paddled in, 
For she glowed with purple paint without. 

And shone with silvery pearl within ; 
A sculler's notch in the stern he made, 
An oar he shaped of the bootle blade; 
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome 
leap, 291 

And launched afar on the calm blue deep. 



The imps of the river yell and rave; 
They had no power above the wave. 
But they heaved the billow before the 
prow, 



And they dashed the surge against her 
side. 

And they struck her keel with jerk and 
blow, 
Till the gunwale bent to the rocking 
tide. 

She wimpled about in the pale moon- 
beam. 

Like a feather that floats on a wind- 
tossed stream; 300 

And momently athwart her track 

The quarl upreared his island back, 

And the fluttering scallop behind would 
float. 

And patter the water about the boat; 

But he bailed her out with his colen-bell, 
And he kept her trimmed with a wary 
tread. 

While on every side like lightning fell 
The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 



Onward still he held his way, 
Till he came where the column of moon- 
shine lay, 310 
And saw beneath the surface dim 
The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim : 
Around him were the goblin train — 
But he sculled with all his might and 

main. 
And followed wherever the sturgeon led, 
Till he saw him upward point his head; 
Then he dropped his paddle blade. 
And held his colen goblet up 320 

To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 



With sweeping tail and quivering fin, 

Through the wave the sturgeon flew. 
And, like the heaven-shot javelin. 

He sprung above the waters blue. 
Instant as the star-fall light. 

He plunged him in the deep again. 
But left an arch of silver bright 

The rainbow of the moony main. 
It was a strange and lovely sight 330 

To see the puny goblin there ; 
He seemed an angel form of light. 

With azure wing and sunny hair. 
Throned on a cloud of purple fair, 
Circled with blue and edged with white. 
And sitting at the fall of even 
Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 

XXII 

A moment and its lustre fell, 
But ere it met the billow blue. 

He caught within his crimson bell, 
A droplet of its sparkling dew — 



i 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



143 



Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done, 
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won — 
Cheerily ply thy dripping oar, 
And haste away to the elfin shore. 



He turns, and lo! on either side 

The ripples on his path divide; 

And the track o'er which his boat must 

pass 
Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. 349 
Around, their Hmbs the sea-nymphs lave. 

With snowy arms half swelling out, 
While on the glossed and gleamy wave 

Their sea-green ringlets loosely float; 
They swim around with smile a:nd song; 

They press the bark with pearly hand. 
And gently urge her course along, 

Toward the beach of speckled sand; 

And, as he lightly leapt to land. 
They bade adieu with nod and bow, 
Then gayly kissed each little hand, 360 

And dropped in the crystal deep below. 

XXIV 

A moment staied the fairy there; 

He kissed the beach and breathed a 

prayer, 
Then he spread his wings of gilded blue, 
And on to the elfin court he flew; 
As ever ye saw a bubble rise. 
And shine with a thousand changing dyes. 
Till lessening far through ether driven, 
It mingles with the hues of heaven : 
As, at the glimpse of morning pale, 370 
The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, 
And gleams with blendings soft and 

bright. 
Till lost in the shades of fading night; 
So rose from earth the lovely Fay — 
So vanished, far in heaven away ! 

Up, Fairy! quit thy chick-weed bower. 
The cricket has called the second hour, 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streaking of the skies — 
Up ! thy charmed armour don, 380 

Thou'lt need it ere the night be gone. 



He put his acorn helmet on; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle 

down: 
The corslet plate that guarded his breast 
Was once the wild bee's golden vest; 
His cloak* of a thousand mingled dyes, 
Was formed of the wings of butterflies; 



His shield was the shell of a lady-bug 
queen. 

Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 

And the quivering lance which he bran- 
dished bright, 390 

Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in 
fight. 
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; 

He bared his blade of the bent grass blue ; 

He drove his spurs of the cockle seed, 
And away like a glance of thought he 
flew. 

To skim the heavens and follow far 

The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 



The moth-fly, as he shot in air, 
Crept under the leaf, and hid her there; 
The Katy-did forgot its lay, 400 

The prowling gnat fled fast away, 
The fell mosqueto checked his drone 
And folded his wings till the Fay was 

gone, 
And the wily beetle dropped his head, 
And fell on the ground as if he were 

dead; 
They crouched them close in the dark- 
some shade, 
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, 
For they had felt the blue-bent blade. 
And writhed at the prick of the elfin 
spear ; 
Many a time on a summer's night, 410 

When the sky was clear and the moon 

was bright. 
They had been roused from the haunted 

ground. 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; 
They had heard the tiny bugle horn. 
They had heard the twang of the maize- 
silk string. 
When the vine-twig bows were tightly 

drawn. 
And the nettle shaft through air was 

borne. 
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's 

wing. 
And now they deemed the courier ouphe, 
Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground; 
And they watched till they saw him mount 
the roof 421 

That canopies the world around; 
Then glad they left their covert lair. 
And freaked about in the midnight air. 



Up to the vaulted firmament 

His path the fire-fly courser bent. 



144 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And at every gallop on the wind, 
He flung a glittering spark behind ; 
He flies like a feather in the blast 
Till the first light cloud in heaven is past, 

But the shapes of air have begun their 
work, 430 

And a drizzly mist is round him cast. 

He cannot see through the mantle murk. 
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast, 

Through storm and darkness, sleet and 
shade. 
He lashes his steed and spurs amain, 
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein, 

And flame-shot tongues around him 
played. 
And near him many a fiendish eye 
Glared with a fell malignity, 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 441 

XXVIII 

His wings are wet around his breast. 
The plume hangs dripping from his crest, 
His eyes are blur'd with the lightning's 

glare, 
And his ears are stunned with the thun- 
der's blare. 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he 
drew. 
He thrust before and he struck behind, 
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies 
through. 
And gashed their shadowy limbs of 
wind; 
Howling the misty spectres flew, 45° 

They rend the air with frightful cries, 
For he has gained the welkin blue, 
And the land of clouds beneath him 
lies. 



XXX 

Sudden along the snowy tide 47o 

That swelled to meet their footsteps' 
fall, 
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide, 

Attired in sunset's crimson pall; 
Around the Fay they weave the dance, 

They skip before him on the plain, 
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, 

And one upholds his bridle-rein; 
With warbling wild they lead him on 

To where through clouds of amber seen, 
Studded with stars, resplendent shone 

The palace of the sylphid queen. 481 

Its spiral columns gleaming bright 
Were streamers of the northern light; 
Its curtain's light and lovely flush 
Was of the morning's rosy blush, 
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon 
The white and feathery fleece of noon. 



But oh ! how fair the shape that lay 

Beneath a rainbow bending bright. 
She seemed to the entranced Fay 490 

The loveliest of the forms of light; 
Her mantle was the purple rolled 

At twilight in the west afar; 
'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold, 

And buttoned with a sparkling star. 
Her face was like the lily roon 

That veils the vested planet's hue; 
Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, 

Set floating in the welkin blue. 
Her hair is like the sunny beam, 5°° 

And the diamond gems which round it 

gleam 
Are the pure drops of dewy even 
That ne'er have left their native heaven. 



Up to the cope careering swift 

In breathless motion fast, 
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift, 

Or the sea-roc rides the blast, 
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot. 

The sphered moon is past, 
The earth but seems a tiny blot 460 

On a sheet of azure cast. 
O ! it was sweet in the clear moonlight. 

To tread the starry plain of even. 
To meet the thousand eyes of night, 

And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 
But the Elfin made no stop or stay 
Till he came to the bank of the milky- 
way. 
Then he checked his courser's foot. 
And watched for the glimpse of the 
planet-shoot. 



She raised her eyes to the wondering 
sprite, 
And they leapt with smiles, for well I 
ween 
Never before in the bowers of light 
Had the form of an earthly Fay been 
seen. 
Long she looked in his tiny face; 

Long with his butterfly cloak she 
played ; 509 

She smoothed his wings of azure lace, 
And handled the tassel of his blade; 
And as he told in accents low 
The story of his love and wo. 
She felt new pains in her bosom rise. 

And the tear-drop started in her eyes. 
And "O sweet spirit of earth," she cried. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 



145 



"Return no more to your woodland 
height, 
But ever here with me- abide 

In the land of everlasting light! 
Within the fleecv drift we'll lie, 520 

We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim; 
And all the jewels of the sky 
Around thy brow shall brightly beam! 
And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 

That rolls its whitening foam aboon 
And ride upon the lightning's gleam, 
^ And dance upon the orbed moon ! 
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring, 

We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, 
And I will bid my sylphs to sing S30 

The song that makes the dew-mist 
melt; 
Their harps are of the umber shade. 

That hides the blush of waking day, 
And every gleamy string is made 

Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray; 
And thou shalt pillow on my breast, 

While heavenly breathings float around, 
And, with the sylphs of ether blest. 

Forget the joys of fairy ground." 

XXXIII 

She was lovely and fair to see 540 

And the elfin's heart beat fitfully; 
But lovelier far, and still more fair, 
The earthly form imprinted there; 
Nought he saw in the heavens above 
Was half so dear as his mortal love. 
For he thought upon her looks so meek. 
And he thought of the light flush on her 

cheek ; 
Never again might he bask and lie 
On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye, 
But in his dreams her form to see, 55° 
To clasp her in his reverie. 
To think upon his virgin bride. 
Was worth all heaven and earth beside. 

XXXIV 

"Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night, 

On the word of a fairy knight. 

To do my sentence-task aright; 

My honour scarce is free from stain, 

I may not soil its snows again; 

Betide me weal, betide me wo. 

Its mandate must be answered now." s6o 

Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, 

The tear was in her drooping eye; 

But she led him to the palace gate, 
And called the sylphs who hovered there. 

And bade them fly and bring him 
straight 
Of clouds condensed a sable car. 



With charm and spell she blessed it there. 
From all the fiends of upper air; 
Then round him cast the shadowy 

shroud. 
And tied his steed behind the cloud; S7o 
And pressed his hand as she bade him fly 
Far to the verge of the northern sky, 
For by its wane and wavering light 
There was a star would fall to-night. 

XXXV 

Borne afar on the wings of the blast, 
Northward away, he speeds him fast. 
And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering 

rain. 
The clouds roll backward as he flies, 
Each flickering star behind him lies, 580 
And he has reached the northern plain. 
And backed his fire-fly steed again. 
Ready to follow in its flight 
The streaming of the rocket-light. 

xxxvi 
The star is yet in the vault of heaven. 

But it rocks in the summer gale; 
And now 'tis fitful and uneven, 

And now 'tis deadly pale; 
And now 'tis wrapp'd in sulphur smoke, 

And quenched is its rayless beam, sqo 
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke 

It bursts in flash and flame. 
As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance 

That the storm-spirit flings from high, 
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, 

As it fell from the sheeted sky. 
As swift as the wind in its trail behind 

The elfin gallops along. 
The fiends of the clouds are ■ bellowing 
loud. 

But the sylphid charm is strong; 600 
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire. 

While the cloud-fiends fly from the 
blaze ; 
He watches each flake till its sparks ex- 
pire, 

And rides in the light of its rays. 
But he drove his steed to the lightning's 
speed. 

And caught a glimmering spark; 
Then wheeled around to the fairy ground, 

And sped through the midnight dark. 



Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite! 

Elf of eve! and starry Fay! 
Ye that love the moon's soft light, 

Hither — hither wend your way; 
Twine ye in a jocund ring, 



610 



146 



AMERICAN POETRY 



620 



Sing and trip it merrily, 
Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 
Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 

Hail the wanderer again. 

With dance and song, and lute and lyre 
Pure his wing and strong his chain, 

And doubly bright his fairy fire. 
Twine ye in an airy round, 

Brush the dew and print the lea; 
Skip and gambol, hop and bound. 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 

The beetle guards our holy ground. 
He flies about the haunted place, 

And if mortal there be found, 
He hums in his ears and flaps his face; 



The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, 
The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; 630 

Thus we sing, and dance, and play, 
Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 



But hark ! from tower on tree-top high. 

The sentry elf his call has made, 
A streak is in the eastern sky. 

Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade! 
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring. 
The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, 
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn, * 
The cock has crowed, and the Fays are 
gone. 640 



1816. 



1819. 



FROM THE "CROAKER PAPERS/' ' 
BY DRAKE AND HALLECK 



(The text and notes for these and the follow- 
ing poems of Halleck are taken from "The 
Poetical Writings of Fits-Greene Halleck," ed. 
J. G. Wilson, 1869.) 

TO MR. SIMPSON 

Manager of the Park Theater 

Fitz-Greene Halleck 

I'm a friend to your theatre, oft have I 
told you, 
And a still warmer friend, Mr. Simp- 
son, to you; 
And it gives me great pain, be assured, 
to behold you 
Go fast to the devil, .as lately you do. 
We scarcely should know you were still 
in existence, 
Were it not for the play-bills one sees 
in Broadway; 
The newspapers all seem to keep at a 
distance ; 
Have your puffers deserted for want of 
their pay? 

Poor Woodworth!2 his Chronicle died 
broken-hearted; 
What a loss to the drama, the world, 
and the age ! lo 

And Colemans is silent since Phillips de- 
parted, 
And Noah's too busy to think of the 
stage. 
Now, the aim of this letter is merely to 
mention 
That, since all your critics are laid on 
the shelf. 
Out of pure love for you, it is my kind 
intention 
To take box No. 3, and turn critic my- 
self. 

Your ladies are safe — if you please you 
may say it. 
Perhaps they have faults, but I'll let 
them alone; 

* For statement on the "Croaker Papers," see 
piges 626 to 628. 

' "Woodworth's Chronicle." — A periodical con- 
ducted by that popular poet for a brief period. 
_' William Coleman. — The editor of the New- 
York Evening Post. He died during the sum- 
mer of 1829. 



Yet I owe two a debt — 'tis my duty to 
pay it — 
Of them I must speak in a kind, friendly 
tone. 2o 

Mrs. Barnes* — Shakespeare's heart would 
have beat had he seen her — 
Her magic has drawn' from me many a 
tear, 
And ne'er shall my pen or its satire 
chagrin her. 
While pathos, and genius, and feeling 
are dear. 

And there's sweet Miss Leesugg,^ by-the- 
by, she's not pretty. 
She's a Httle too large, and has not too 
much grace. 
Yet, there's something about her so witch- 
ing and witty, 
'Tis pleasure to gaze on her good- 
humored face. 
But as for your men — I don't mean to be 
surly. 
Of praise that they merit they'll each 
have his share; 3° 

For the present, there's Olliff,^ a famous 
Lord Burleigh, 
And Hopper and Maywood, a promis- 
ing pair. 

H. 
The New York Evening Post, Mar. 15, 
1819. 

TO CROAKER, JUNIOR 

Your hand, my dear Junior! we're all in 
a flame 
To see a few more of your flashes; 
The Croakers forever! I'm proud of the 

name — 
But, brother, I fear, though our cause 
is the same, 
We shall quarrel like Brutus and Cassius. 

_ * Mrs. John Barnes appeared for the last time 
m Philadelphia, July 25, 1851, as Lady Randolph, 
which character she sustained with almost un- 
diminished excellence. 

= Miss Catherine Leesugg, afterward Mrs. 
James H. Hackett, and Mrs. Barnes. As ladies 
and actresses, well meriting the poet's eulogiums, 
and highly estimated in public and private life. 

" Olliff, etc. — Actors of merit in various de- 
partments of their profession. 



147 



148 



AMERICAN POETRY 



But why should we do so? 'tis false what 
they tell 
That poets can never be cronies; 
Unbuckle your harness, in peace let us 

dwell ; 
Our goose-quills will canter together as 
well 
As a pair of Primed mouse-colored 
ponies. '° 

Once blended in spirit, we'll make our 
appeal, 
And by law be incorporate too; 
Apply for a charter in crackers to deal; 
A fly-flapper rampant shall shine on our 
seal, 
And the firm shall be "Croaker & Co." 

Fun ! prosper the union-smile, Fate, on 
its birth ! 
Miss Atropos, shut up your scissors ; 
Together we'll range through the regions 

of mirth, 
A pair of bright gemini dropped on the 
earth, 
The Castor and Pollux of quizzers. 20 

D. 
The New York Evening Post, Mar. 16, 
1819. 

THE NATIONAL PAINTING 2 

Awake ! ye forms of verse divine ; 

Painting! descend on canvas wing. 
And hover o'er my head, Desing! 

Your son, your glorious son, I sing! 
At Trumbull's name, I break my sloth. 

To load him with poetic riches ; 
The Titian of a table-cloth! 

The Guido of a pair of breeches! 

Come, star-eyed maid. Equality ! 

In thine adorer's praise I revel; ^° 

Who brings, so fierce his love to thee. 

All forms and faces to a level : 
Old, young, great, small, the grave, the 

gay- 
Each man might swear the next his 

brother. 

And there they stand in dread array. 

To fire their votes at one another. 

Hov/ bright their buttons shine ! how 
straight 
Their coat-flaps fall in plaited grace! 

* Nathaniel Prime. — A wealthy and worthy 
banker of the house of Prime, Ward & Sands, 
in Wall Street. 

* The National Painting, "The Declaration of 
Independence," by Colonel Trumbull. 



How smooth the hair on every pate ! 

How vacant each immortal face ! 20 
And then the tints, the shade, the flush, 
(I wrong them with a strain too 
humble,) 
Not mighty Sherred's^ strength of brush 
Can match thy glowing hues, my Trum- 
bull ! 

Go on, great painter ! dare be dull — 

No longer after Nature dangle; 
Call rectilinear beautiful; 

Fine grace and freedom in an angle : 
Pour on the red, the green, the yellow, 

"Paint till a horse may mire upon it," 30 
And while I've strength to write or bel- 
low, 
I'll sound your praises in a sonnet. 

D. 
The New York Evening Post, Mar. 15, 
1819. 

THE MAN WHO FRETS AT 
WORLDLY STRIFE 

"A merry heart goes all the way 
A sad one tires in a mile-a." 

Winter's Tale. 

The man who frets at worldly strife, 

Grows sallow, sour, and thin ; 
Give us the lad whose happy life 

Is one perpetual grin; 
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold. 

He smiles when others sigh. 
Enjoys alike the hot and cold. 

And laughs through wet and dry. 

There's fun in every thing we meet, 

The greatest, worst, and best, "> 

Existence is a merry treat. 

And every speech a jest; 
Be't ours to watch the crowds that pass 

Where Mirth's gay banner waves ; 
To show fools through a quizzing-glass. 

And bastinade the knaves. 

The serious world will scold and ban. 

In clamor loud and hard. 
To hear Meigs called a Congressman, 

And Paulding styled a bard; 20 

But, come what may, the man's in luck 

Who turns it all to glee. 
And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, 

"Great Lord I what fools ye be." 

D. 

The New York Evening Post, Mar. 19, 
1819. 

^ Jacob Sherred. — A wealthy painter and 
glazier. 



I 



DRAKE AND HALLECK 



149 



TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ. 

On witnessing the representation of the 
New Tragedy of Brutus 

I have been every night, whether empty 
or crowded. 
And taken my seat in your Box No. 3; 
In a sort of poetical Scotch mist I'm 
shrouded. 
As the far-famed Invisible Girl used 
to be. 

As a critic professed, 'tis my province to 
flout you, 
And hiss as they did at poor Charley's^ 
Macheath ; 
But all is so right and so proper about 
you. 
That I'm forced to be civil in spite of 
my teeth. 

In your dresses and scenery, classic and 
clever ; 
Such invention ! such blending of old 
things and new ! lo 

Let Kemble's proud laurels be withered 
forever ! 
Wear the wreath, my dear Simpson, 'tis 
fairly your due. 

How apropos^ now was that street scene 
in Brutus, 
Where the sign "Coffee-House" in plain 
English was writ ! 
By-the-way, "Billy Niblo's"^ would much 
better suit us. 
And box, pit, and gallery, roar at the 
wit. 

How sparkled the eyes of the raptured 
beholders, 
To see Kilner,^ a Roman, in robes "a 
la Grec!" 
How graceful they flowed o'er his neatly- 
turned shoulders ! 
How completely they set off his Johnny- 
Bull neck ! 20 

^ "Charley Macheath." — In which character in 
the Beggars' Opera the celebrated English singer, 
Mr. Charles Incledon, during his engagement 
some tirne previous at the Park Theatre, had 
been favorably received. 

* William Niblo. — Tlie proprietor of the then 
most popular hotel and restaurant in New York, 
on the corner of William and Pine Streets, and 
still a highly-respected resident of this city. 
^Thomas Kilner, etc., etc. — Comedians at the 
theatre. The three latter had been recently 
engaged in England by Mr. Simpson during a 
professional visit there. 



But to hint at a thousand fine things that 
amuse me. 
Would take me a month — so adieu till 
my next. 
And your actors, they must for the present 
excuse me; 
One word though, en passant, for fear 
they'll be vexed. 

Moreland, Howard, and Garner, the last 
importation ! 
Three feathers as bright as the Prince 
Regent's Plume! 
Though puffing is, certainly, not my voca- 
tion, 
I always shall praise them, whenever 
I've room. 

With manners so formed to persuade and 
to win you. 
With faces one need but to look on to 
love, 30 

They're like Jefferson's "Natural Bridge" 
in Virginia — 
"Worth a voyage across the Atlantic," 
by Jove ! 

H. 
The New York Evening Post, Mar. 20, 
1819. 

TO CAPTAIN SEAMAN WEEKS 

Chairman of the Tenth Ward Indepen- 
dent Electors'^ 

Captain Weeks, your right hand — though 
I never have seen it, 
I shake it on paper, full ten times a 
day; 
I love your Tenth Ward, and I wish I 
lived in it; 
Do you know any house there to let 
against May? 
I don't mind what the rent is, so long as 
I get off 
From these party-mad beings, these 
tongues without heads ! 
I'm ashamed to be seen, sir, among such 
a set of 
Clintonians, Tammanies, Goodies, and 
Feds! 

Besides, I am nervous, and can't bear the 
racket 
These gentlemen make when they're 
begging for votes; 10 

■* Tenth-Ward Electors. — Those composing a 
party in opposition for a short time to the regu- 
lar nominees at Tammany Hall. 



150 



AMERICAN POETRY 



There's John Haff, and Ben Bailly, and 
Christian, and Bracket, 
Only think what fine music must come 
from their throats ! 
Colonel Warner calls Clinton a "star in 
the banner," 
Mapes swears by his sword-knot he'll 
ruin us all ; 
While Meigs flashes out in his fine classic 
manner, 
"The meteor Gorgon of Clinton must 
fall!" 

In vain I endeavor to give them a hint on 
Sense, reason, or temper — they laugh 
at it all; 
For sense is nonsense when it makes 
against Clinton, 
And reason is treason in Tammany 
Hall. 20 

So I mean (though I fear I shall seem 
unto some a 
Strange, obstinate, odd-headed kind of 
an elf) 
To strike my old tent in the Fourth, and 
become a 
"Tenth Ward independent elector" my- 
self. 

D. 
The New York Evening Post, Apr. 8, 
1819. 



ABSTRACT OF THE SURGEON- 
GENERAL'S REPORT 1 

The Surgeon-General by brevet. 

With zeal for public service burning, 
Thinks this a happy time to get 

Another chance to show his learning; 
He has in consequence collected 

His wits, and stewed them in retorts; 
By distillation thus perfected. 

He hopes to shine, and so reports. 

That he has searched authorities 

From Johnson down to Ashe and 
Shelley, _ ^o 

And finds that a militia is 

What he is now about to tell ye : 
Militia means — such citizens 

As e'en in peace are kept campaigning — 
The gallant souls that shoulder guns 

And, twice a year, go out a-training! 

^ The Surgeon-General. Dr. Samuel L. Mit- 
chill. 



This point being fixed, we must, I think 
sir. 

Proceed unto the second part, 
Entitled Grog — a kind of drink, sir, 

Which, by its action on the heart, 20 
Makes men so brave, they dare attack 

A bastion at its angle salient; 
This is a well-established fact — 

The very proverb says — pot-valiant. 

Grog — I'll define it in a minute — 

Take gin, rum, whiskey, or peach- 
brandy. 
Put but a little water in it. 

And that is Grog — now understand me, 
I mean to say, that should the spirit 

Be left out by some careless dog, 3° 
It is — I wish the world may hear it ! 

It is plain water, and not Grog. 

Having precisely fixed what Grog is 
(My reasoning, sir, that question set- 
tles!) 

We next must ascertain what Prog is — 
Now Prog, in vulgar phrase, is victuals : 

This will embrace all kinds of food. 
Which on the smoking board can charm 

y^' . . 

And by digestion furnish blood, 

A thing essential in an army ! 4° 

These things should all be swallowed 
warm. 

For heat, digestion much facilitates ; 
Cold is a tonic, and does harm ; 

A tonic always, sir, debilitates. 
My plan then is to raise, as fast 

As possible, a corps of cooks. 
And drill them daily from the last 

Editions of your cookery-books! 

Done into English and likewise into 
verse by H. and D. 

The New York Evening Post, Apr. 10, 
1819. 



TO XXXX, ESQUIRE 



Come, shut up your Blackstone, an 

sparkle again 
The leader and light of our classical 

revels ; 
While statues and cases bewilder your 

brain. 
No wonder you're vexed and beset with 

blue devils. 
But a change in your diet will banish the 

blues ; 



,it1 



II 



DRAKE AND HALLECK 



151 



Then come, my old chum, to our ban- 
quet subHme; 
Our wine shall be caught from the Hps 
of the Muse, 

And each plate and tureen shall be hal- 
lowed in rhyme. 

Scott, from old Albin, shall furnish the 
dishes 
With wild-fowl and ven'son that none 
can surpass ; lo 

And Mitchill, who sung the amours of the 
fishes, 
Shall fetch his most exquisite tomcod 
and bass. 
Leigh Hunt shall select, at his Hampstead 
Parnassus, 
Fine greens, from the hot-bed, the table 
to cheer; 
And Wordsworth shall bring us whole 
bowls of molasses 
Diluted with water from sweet Winder- 
mere. 

To rouse the dull fancy and give us an 
appetite. 
Black wormwood bitters Lord Byron 
shall bear, 
And Montgomery bring (to consumptives 
a happy sight) 
Tepid soup-meagre and 'Teau capil- 
laire ;" 20 

George Coleman shall sparkle in old bot- 
tled cider. 
Roast-beef and potatoes friend Crabbe 
will supply; 
Rogers shall hash us an "olla podrida," 
And the best of fresh "cabbage" from 
Paulding we'll buy. 

Mr. Tennant — free, fanciful, laughing, and 
lofty, 
Shall pour out Tokay and Scotch 
whiskey like rain; 
Southey shall sober our spirits with coffee. 
And Horace in London "flash up in 
champagne." 
Tom Campbell shall cheer us with rosy 
Madeira, 
Refined by long keeping, rich, spark- 
ling, and pure; 3° 
And Moore, "pour chasse cafe," to each 
one shall bear a 
Sip-witching bumper of parfait amour. 

Then come to our banquet — oh ! how can 
you pause 
A moment between merry rhyme and 
dull reason? 



Preferring the wit-blighting "Spirit of 
Laws" 
To the spirit of verse, is poetical trea- 
son! 
Judge Phoebus will certainly issue his writ. 
No quirk or evasion your cause can 
make good, man ; 
Only think what you'll suffer, when sen- 
tenced to sit 
And be kept broad awake till you've 
read the Backwoodsman ! 4° 

D. 
The New York Evening Post, Apr. 16, 
1819. 

TO MRS. BARNES 

The Actress 

Dear Ma'am — we seldom take the pen 
To praise, for whim and jest our trade 
is; 
We're used to deal with gentlemen, 
To spatter folly's skirts, and then 
We're somewhat bashful with the ladies. 

Nor is it meant to give advice; 

We dare not take so much upon us; 
But merely wish, in phrase concise. 
To beg you, Ma'am, and Mr. Price, 

For God's sake, to have mercy on us ! "> 

Oh ! wave again thy wand of power, 

No more in melodramas whine. 
Nor toil Aladdin's lamp to scour. 
Nor dance fandangoes by the hour 
To Morgiana's tambourine ! 

Think, Lady, what we're doomed to feel — 
By Heaven ! 'twould rouse the wrath 
of Stoics, 
To see the queen of sorrows deal 
In thundering "lofty-low" by Shiell, 
Or mad Maturin's mock-heroics. 20 

Away with passion's withering kiss, 
A purer spell be thine to win us ; 
Unlock the fount of holiness 
While gentle Pity weeps in bliss. 
And hearts throb sweetly sad within us. 

Or call those smiles again to thee 

That shone upon the lip that wove them, 
Like sun-drops on a summer-sea. 
When waters ripple pleasantly 29 

To wanton winds that flutter o'er them. 

When Pity wears her willow-wreath, 
Let Desdemona's woes be seen ; 



152 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Sweet Beverly's confiding faith, 
Or Juliet, loving on in death, 
Or uncomplaining Imogen. 

When wit and mirth their temples bind 
With thistle-shafts o'erhung with flow- 
ers, 

Then quaint and merry Rosalind, 

Beatrice with her April mind 

And Dinah's simple heart be ours. 4° 

For long thy modest orb has been 

Eclipsed by heartless, cold parade; 
So sinks the light of evening's queen 
When the dull earth intrudes between. 
Her beauties from the sun to shade. 

Let Fashion's worthless plaudits rise 

At the deep tone and practised start; 
Be thine true feeling's stifled sighs, 
Tears wrung from stern and stubborn 
eyes, 49 

And smiles that sparkle from the heart. 
H. AND D. 

The New York Evening Post, Apr. 19, 
1819. 

AN ADDRESS 1 

For the opening of the new Theatre, Sept. 
I, 1821, to be spoken by Mr. Olliff 

Ladies and Gentlemen : 

Enlightened as you were, you all must 

know 
Our playhouse was burnt down some time 

ago. 
Without insurance. 'Twas a famous 

blaze. 
Fine fun for firemen, but dull sport for 

plays ; 
The proudest of our whole dramatic corps 
Such warm reception never met before. 
It was a woeful night for us and ours. 
Worse than dry weather to the fields and 

flowers. 
The evening found us gay as summer's 

lark, 
Happy as sturgeons in the Tappan Sea; 
The morning, like the dove frorp Noah's 

ark, " 

As homeless, houseless, desolate as she. 

* This amusing burlesque address, first pub- 
lished in the New-York Evening Post, was in- 
cluded in a small volume containing the Rejected 
Addresses, together with the prize address, writ- 
ten by Charles Sprague, and spoken by Edmund 
Simpson, on the reopening of the Park Theatre, 
September 1, 1821. 



But thanks to those who always have 

been known 
To love the public interest, when their 

own — 
Thanks to the men of talent and of trade. 
Who joy in doing well when they're well 

paid — 
Again our fireworn mansion is rebuilt, 
Inside and outside, neatly carved and gilt. 
With best of paint and canvas, lath and 

plaster, 
The Lord bless Beekman^ and John Jacob 

Astor ! 
As an old coat, from Jennings' ^ patent 

screw. 
Comes out clean scoured and brighter 

than the new ; 
As an old head in Saunders' ^ patent wig. 
Looks wiser than when young, and twice 

as big; 
As Mat Van Buren in the Senate-hall, 
Repairs the loss we met in Spencer's fall ; 
As the new Constitution will (we're told) 
Be worth, at least, a dozen of the old. 
So is our new house better than its 

brother. 
Its roof is painted yellower than the 

other, 30 ^ 

It is insured at three per cent, 'gainst fire, " 
And cost three times as much, and is six 

inches higher. 

'Tis not alone the house — the prompter's 
clothes 

Are all quite new, so are the fiddlers' 
bows ; 

The supernumeraries are newly shaved,. 

New drilled, and all extremely well be- 
haved 

(They'll each one be allowed, I pause to 
mention. 

The right of suffrage by the new Con- 
vention). 

We've some new thunder, several new 
plays, 

And a new splendid carpet of green baize. 

So that there's naught remains to bid us 
reach 41 

The topmost bough of favor, but a 
speech — 

A speech, the prelude to each public meet- 
ing. 

Whether for morals, charity, or eating — 

2 Messrs. John K. Beekman and John Jacob 
Astor were joint proprietors of the Park Theatre. 
The former, from his love of theatricals, was 
familiarly known as "Theatre Jack." 

^ Isaac Jennings was a well-known dealer in 
old clothes, and George Saunders was a fashion- 
able wig-maker. 



DRAKE AND HALLECK 



153 



A speech, the modern mode of winning 

hearts, 
And power, and fame, in politics and arts. 

What made the good Monroe^ our 
President? 

'Twas that through all this blessed land 
he went 

With his immortal cocked hat and short 
breeches. 

Dining — wherever asked — and making 
speeches. 5° 

What, when Missouri stood on her last 
legs, 

Revived her hopes? The speech of Henry- 
Meigs. ^ 

^ The President, James Monroe, had a short 
time previously made a tour through the Middle 
and Eastern States. 

2 Henry Meigs, when a member of Congress, 
had advocated the admission of Missouri into 
the Union, on Southern terms. 



What proves our country wise, learned, 

and happy? 
Mitchill's address to the Phi Beta Kappa. 
What has convinced the world that we 

have men. 
First with the sword, the chisel, brush, 

and pen. 
Shaming all English rivals, men or 

madams ? 
The "Fourth of July" speech of Mr. 

Adams. 
Yes, if our managers grow great and 

rich. 
And players prosper, let them thank my 

speech, 6o 

And let the name of Olliff proudly go 
With Meigs and Adams, Mitchill and 

Monroe ! H. 

The New York Evening Post, Aug. 21, 
1821. 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 

(1790-1867) 



FANNY 

The first forty-three stanzas deal with the com' 
tnercial successes of Fanny's papa — from Chat- 
ham Street to Hanover Square by way of Pearl 
Street — and the day dreams of Fanny. It is to 
the father that Ambition "in fashion's elegant 
undress" appears. 

(American Culture) 



But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying, 
"Deshabillee" — his bedside tripping near, 

And, gently on his nose her fingers lay- 
ing- 
She roared out "Tammany!" m his 

frighted ear. 
The potent word awoke him from his nap. 
And then she vanished, whispering ver- 

bum sap. 

XLV 

The last words were beyond his compre- 
hension. 
For he had left off schooling, ere the 
Greek 

Or Latin classics claimed his mind's at- 
tention : 
Besides, he often had been heard to 
speak '^° 

Contemptuously of all that sort of knowl- 
edge. 

Taught so profoundly in Columbia Col- 
lege. 

XLVI 

We owe the ancients something. You 
have read 
Their works, no doubt — at least in a 
translation ; 
Yet there was argument in what he said, 

I scorn equivocation or evasion. 
And own it must, in candor, be confessed 
They were an ignorant set of men at best. 

XLVII 

'Twas their misfortune to be born too 
soon 
By centuries, and in the wrong place, 
too ; 



They never saw a steamboat, or balloon, 

Velocipede, or Quarterly Review; 
Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin , 

breeches. 
Or read an Almanac, or Clinton's 

Speeches. i 

XLVIII 

In short, in every thing we far outshine 
them, — 
Art, science, taste, and talent; and a 
stroll 

Through this enlightened city would re- 
fine them 
More than ten years' hard study of the 
whole 

Their genius has produced of rich and 
rare — 29 - 

God bless the Corporation and the Mayor ! 



In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian 
master, 
Blushing, had owned his purest model 
lacks ; 
We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster, 
The witch of Endor in the best of wax. 
Besides the head of Franklin on the roof 
Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather- 
proof. 

L 

And on our City Hall a Justice stands ; 
A neater form was never made of 
board, 
Holding majestically in her hands 

A pair of steelyards and a wooden 

sword ; 40 

And looking down with complaisant civil- 

'ty— 

Emblem of dignity and durability. 



In painting, we have Trumbull's proud 
chef d'ccitvre, 

Blending in one the funny and the fine : 
His "Independence" will endure forever, 

And so will Mr. Allen's lottery-sign; 
And all that grace the Academy of Arts, 
From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's. 



154 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



155 



LII 

In architecture, our unrivalled skill 
Cullen's magnesian shop has loudly 
spoken so 

To an admiring world ; and better still 
Is Gautier's fairy palace at Hoboken. 

In music, we've the Euterpian Society, 

And amateurs, a wonderful variety. 



In physic, we have Francis and McNeven 
Famed for long heads, short lectures, 

and long bills; 
And Quackenboss and others, who from 

heaven 
Were rained upon us in a shower of 

pills ; 
They'd beat the deathless ^sculapius 

hollow, 59 

And make a starveling druggist of Apollo. 



And who, that ever slumbered at the 
Forum, 
But owns the first of orators we claim : 

Cicero would have bowed the knee be- 
fore 'em — 
And for law eloquence, we've Doctor 
Graham. 

Compared with him, their Justins and 
Quintilians 

Had dwindled into second-rate civilians. 



For pur-'^y and chastity of style, 

There's Pell's preface, and puffs by 

Home and Waite, 

For penetration deep, and learned toil, 

And all that stamps an author truly 

great, 7" 

Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes? 

a treasure 
For any man of patience and of leisure. 



Oxonian Bristed ! many a foolscap page 
He, in his time, hath written, and more- 
over 

(What few will do in this degenerate 
age) 
Hath read his own works, as you may 
discover 

By counting his quotations from him- 
self— 

You'll find the books on any auction- 
shelf. 



LVII 

I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not 
meant 
To claim this Oxford scholar as our 
own ; 8o 

That he was shipped off here to represent 
Her literature among us, is well known ; 

And none could better fill the lofty sta- 
tion 

Of Learning's envoy from the British 
nation. 

LVIII 

We fondly hope that he will be respected 
At home, and soon obtain a place or 
pension. 

We should regret to see him live neg- 
lected, 
Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could 
mention ; 

Who paid us friendly visits to abuse 

Our country, and find food for the re- 
views. 9° 

(Fanny's Education) 

CXI 

She long had known that in her father's 

coffers, 
And also to his credit in the banks. 
There was some cash; and therefore all 

the offers 
Made her, by gentlemen of the middle 

ranks. 
Of heart and hand, had spurned, as far 

beneath 
One whose high destiny it was to breathe, 



Ere long, the air of Broadway or Park 
Place, 
And reign a fairy queen in fairy land ; 
Display in the gay dance her form of 
grace, 
Or touch with rounded arm and glove- 
less hand, i° 
Harp or piano. — Madame Catilani 
Forgot awhile, and every eye on Fanny. 

CXIII 

And in anticipation of that hour, 

Her star of hope, her paradise of 
thought, 
She'd had as many masters as the power 
Of riches could bestow; and had been 
taught 
The thousand nameless graces that adorn 
The daughters of the wealthy and high- 
born. 



156 



AMERICAN POETRY 



CXIV 



She had been noticed at some public 

places 

(The Battery, and the balls of Mr. 

Whale), 20 

For hers was one of those attractive faces, 

That when you gaze upon them, never 

fail 

To bid you look again ; there was a beam, 

A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem 



cxv 
A little Hke effrontery; and yet 

The lady meant no harm; her only aim 
Was but to be admired by all she met, 
And the free homage of the heart to 

claim ; 
And if she showed too plainly this in- 
tention, 
Others have done the same — 'Twas not 
of her invention. 3° 




cxix 

She was among the first and warmest 

patrons 
Of Griscom's conversaziones, where 5° 
In rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids 

and matrons. 
On science bent, assemble; to prepare 
Themselves for acting well, in life, their 

part 
As wives and mothers. There she learned 

by heart 

cxx 

Words, to the witches in Macbeth un- 
known. 
Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumat- 
ics, 
Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon, 

Chlorine, and iodine, and aerostatics ; 
Also, — why frogs, for want of air, expire ; 
And how to set the Tappan Sea on fire ! 6o 



She shone at every concert ; where are 
bought 
Tickets by all who wish them, for a 
dollar ; 
She patronized the Theatre, and thought 
That Wallack looked extremely well in 
Rolla ; 
She fell in love, as all the ladies do, 
With Mr. Simpson — talked as loudly, too, 



As any beauty of the highest grade. 
To the gay circle in the box beside her ; 

And when the pit — half vexed and half 
afraid. 
With looks of smothered indignation 
eyed her, 4o 

She calmly met their gaze, and stood be- 
fore 'em, 

Smiling at vulgar taste and mock de- 
corum. 

CXVIII 

And though by no means a has bleu, she 

had 
For literature a most becoming passion ; 
Had skimmed the latest novels, good and 

bad, 
And read the Croakers, when they were 

in fashion; 
And Dr. Chalmers' sermons of a Sunday ; 
And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new 

Salmagundi. 



In all the modern languages she was 
Exceedingly well-versed ; and had de- 
voted. 
To their attainment, far more time than 
has. 
By the best teachers, lately been allotted ; 
For she had taken lessons, twice a week, 
For a full month in each; and she could 
speak 

CXXII 

French and Italian, equally as well 
As Chinese, Portuguese, or German; 
and 

What is still more surprising, she could 
spell 
Most of our longest English words off- 
hand ; 70 

Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and 
Spanish, 

And thought of studying modern Greek 
and Danish. 

CXXIII 

She sang divinely; and in "Love's young 
dream" 
And "Fanny dearest," and "The sol- 
dier's bride" ; 

And every song, whose dear delightful 
theme, 
Is "Love, still love," had oft till mid- 
night tried 

Her finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings" of 
sound. 

Waking the very watchmen far around. 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



157 



(Success in New York City) 

cxxxv 
Ambition with her sire had kept her word. 
He had the rose, no matter for its 
thorn, 
And he seemed happy as a summer bird, 
Careering on wet wing to meet the 
morn. 
Some said there was a cloud upon his 

brow; 
It might be — but we'll not discuss that 
now. 

cxxxvi 
I left him making rhymes while crossing 
o'er 
The broad and perilous wave of the 
North River. 
He bade adieu, when safely on the shore. 
To poetry — and, as he thought, for- 
ever. , 10 
That night his dream (if after-deeds 

make known 
Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting 
one. 

CXXXVII 

He woke, in strength, like Samson from 
his slumber, 
And walked Broadway, enraptured, the 
next day; 

Purchased a house there — I've forgot the 
number — 
And signed a mortgage and a bond, for 
pay. 

Gave, in the slang phrase. Pearl Street the 
go-by. 

And cut, for several months, St. Tam- 
many. 

CXXXVIII 

Bond, mortgage, title-deeds, and all com- 
pleted. 
He bought a coach and half a dozen 
horses 20 

(The bill's at Lawrence's — not yet re- 
ceipted — 
You'll find the amount upon his list of 
losses). 

Then filled his rooms with servants, and 
whatever 

Is necessary for a "genteel liver." 

cxxxix 
This last removal fixed him : every stain 
Was blotted from his "household coat," 
and he 
Now "showed the world he was a gentle- 
man," 



And, what is better, could afford to be; 
His step was loftier than it was of old. 
His laugh less frequent, and his manner 
told 30 

CXL 

What lovers call "unutterable things" — 

That sort of dignity was in his mien 
Which awes the gazer into ice, and brings 
To recollection some great man we've 
seen. 
The Governor, perchance, whose eye and 

frown, 
'Twas shrewdly guessed, would knock 
Judge Skinner down. 

CXLI 

And for "Resources," both of purse and 
head. 
He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen; 
Believed devoutly all his flatterers said. 
And deemed himself a Croesus among 
men ; 40 

Spread to the liberal air his silken sails. 
And lavished guineas Hke a Prince of 
Wales. 

CXLII 

He mingled now with those within whose 

veins 
The blood ran pure — the magnates of 

the land — 
Hailed them as his companions and his 

friends, 
And lent them money and his note of 

hand. 
In every institution, whose proud aim 
Is public good alone, he soon became 

CXLIII 

A man of consequence and notoriety; 
His narne, with the addition of esquire, 5° 
Stood high upon the list of each society. 
Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred 

fire 
Of science, agriculture, art, and learning. 
Keep on our country's altars bright and 

burning. 

CXLIV 

At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two. each 
day, 
With men of taste and judgment like 
his own. 
And played "first fiddle" in that orchestra 

Of literary worthies — and the tone 
Of his mind's music by the listeners 
caught. 
Is traced among them still in language 
and in thought. 60 



158 



AMERICAN POETRY 



CXLV 

He once made the Lyceum a choice pres- 
ent 
Of mussel-shells picked up at Rocka- 
way; 
And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasant 
Discourse about them in the streets that 
day, 
Naming the shells, and hard to put in 
verse 'twas 
"Testaceous coverings of bivalve mol- 
luscas." 

CXLVI 

He was a trustee of a Savings Bank, 
And lectured soundly every evil-doer, 

Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and 

rank, 69 

And sixpence every Sunday to the poor; 

He was a wit, in the pun-making line — 

Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine. 



But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle, 
With eagle eye and step that never fal- 
tered, 
The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell 
That cash was scarce with him, and 
credit altered; 
And while he stood the envy of beholders. 
The Bank Directors grinned, and 
shrugged their shoulders. 

CXLVIII 

And when these, the Lord Burleighs of 
the minute, 
Shake their sage heads, and look de- 
mure and holy, 80 
Depend upon it there is something in it; 
For whether born of wisdom or of folly. 
Suspicion is a being whose fell power 
Blights everything it touches, fruit and 
flower. 

Separately published, Dec, 1819. 



ON THE DEATH OF 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 
of New York, September, 1820. 

"The good die first. 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust. 
Burn to the socket." — Wordsworth. 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 



Tears fell when thou wert dying, 
From eyes unused to weep. 

And long, where thou are lying. 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth; 

And I who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 
Whose weal and woe were thine: 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow. 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee. 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



The Quarterly Repository, 



MARCO BOZZARISi 



1820. 



At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent. 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he 

bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard;. 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring: 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a 

king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, ^ 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platsea's day; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike and soul to dare,. -' 

As quick, as far as they. 

^ Marco Bozzaris, one of the best and bravest 
of the modern Greek chieftains. He fell in a 
night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, 
the site of the ancient Platsa, August 20, 1823, 
and expired in the moment of victory. 



II 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



159 



An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 

That bright dream was his last; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriekj 

"To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the 
Greek !" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

Ana death-shots faUing thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 31 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires; 
Strike — for the green graves of your 
sires; 

God — and your native land !" 

They fought — like brave men, long and 
well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem 
slain, 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 4° 

His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 5° 

That close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; . 
Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and 
warm. 

With banquet - song, and dance and 
wine; 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 60 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 70 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men : 



Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese. 
When the land wind, from woods of palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 80 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral-weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its 
plume 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved and for a season gone; 9° 

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble "wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace-couch and cottage-bed; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him the joy of her young years, ^°° 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys. 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth. 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 
One of the few, the immortal names, "° 

That were not born to die. 

The New York Review, , 1823. 

THE IRON GRAYS I 

We twine the wreath of honor 

Around the warrior's brow. 
Who, at his country's altar, breathes 

The life-devoting vow. 
And shall we to the Iron Grays 

The meed of praise deny. 
Who freely swore, " in danger's days, 

For their native land to die? 

^ During the second war with Great Britain, 
Mr. Halleck joined a New York infantry com- 
pany, "Swarthout's gallant corps, the Iron 
Grays," as he afterward wrote in "Fanny," and 
excited their martial ardor by this spirited ode. 



160 



AMI- K I CAN l\^l-^rRV 



For o'or our blooding' coimtry 

No'cr loworod a darkor storm, '^^ 

Than bade thom round thoir gallant ohiot" 

rtio iron phalanx form. 
Whon tirst thoir bannor wavod in air. 

Invasion's bands woro nigh. 
And tho battk>-drum boat knig atul loud. 

And the torch of war blazed high ! 

Though still bright gloam thoir bayonots, 

I'nstainod with hostilo goro, 
l^ir distaiu yot is luigland's host, 

I'nhoard hor cannon's roar. -"<' 

Yot not in vain thoy flow to arms; 

It made tho foomon know 
That many a gallant heart must blood 

Ere freedom's star be low. 

Guards of a nation's destiny ! 

High is that nation's claini, 
l-'or not unknown your spirit proud. 

Nor your daring chieftain's name. 
' ris yours to shield tho dearest ties 

That bind to life tho heart. .^^ 

That mingle with tho earliest breath. 

Atid with our last depart. 

The angel-smile of beauty 

What heart but bounds to fool? 
Her tingers buckled on tho belt. 

That sheathes your gloaming stool. 
And if tho soldier's honored death 

\n battle bo your doom. 
Her tears shall bid tho tlowors be green 

That blossom round your tomb. 4^' 

Tread on the path of duty. 

Band of tho patriot brave. 
Prepared to rush, at honor's call. 

"To glory or the grave." 
Nor bid your flag agaiti be furled 

Till proud its eagles soar. 
Till tho battle-drum has ceased to boat. 

And tho war-torch burns no more. 

CONNECTICUT 
From An U»fi>ttshed Poem 

"The woods in which we had dwelt pte.n.^autly 
rustled their green leaves in the song, and our 
streams were there with the sound of all their 
waters." — Montrose. 

I 
Still her gray rocks tower above the sea 
That crouches at thoir foot, a conquered 
wa\o ; 
'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, attd 
tree. 
Where breathes no castled lord or cab- 
ined slave; 



\\ here thoughts, and tongues, and hamls 

are bold ai\d free, 
Atid friends will tutd a welcome, foes 

a "grave; 
.\nd where tiono kneel, save whon to 

Heaven thoy pray. 
Nor even then, unless in their own way. 



Theirs is a pure republic, wiKl, yet strong, 
A "tierce domocracio," whore all are 
true >^' 

To what themselves have votoil — right or 
wrong- 
Ami to their laws denominated blue: 
(\i red, thev tnight to Oraco's code be- 
long:^ 
A vestal st.ite, which power couUl not 
subdue. 
Nor protnise win — like her own eagle's 

nest. 
Sacred — the San Marino of the West. 



Ill 

A justice of the peace, for the titue || 
being. ■ 

They bow to. but may turn him out 
next year ; 
They reverence their priest, but disagree- 
ing 
In price or creed, disiuiss hiiu without 
fear ; » 

Thoy have a natural talent for foreseeing: 
.\nd knowing all things : and should 
Park appear 
From his long tour in Africa, to show 
Tho Niger's somce, they'd meet hini with 
— "we know." 



They love their land, because it is their 

own. 
.■\,nd scorn to give aught other reason 

why : 
Would shako hands with a king upon his 

throne. 
And think it kindness to his majesty; 
.\ stubborn race, fearing ai\d flattering 

none. 
Such are they nurtured, such thoy live 

and die ; -'^^ 

.Ml but a few apostates, who are med- 
dling 
With merchandise, pounds, shillings, 

pence, and peddling; 



ii 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



161 



()r wanrlcn'njr \hrrmiijn thf: Southern coun- 
tries teach iriK 
'Hie A J{ C from Webster's speJlinj?- 
book ; 
Gallant and godly, making love and 
preaehing, 
And gain in j{ by what they call "hook 
and erook," 
And what the moralists call overreaching, 
A decc-nt living. The Virginians look 
Upon them with as favorable eyes 
As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. 'i'^ 



I>ut the?,e are but their outcasts. View 
them near 
At home, where all their worth and 
pride is placed; 
And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 
And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth 
is graced 
With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 
i''aithful in love, in honor stern and 
chaste, 
\n friendship warm and true, in danger 

brave, 
iielovcd in life, and sainted in the grave. 



VII 

And minds have there been nurtured, 
whose control 
Is felt even in their nation's destiny; 30 
Men who swayed senates with a states- 
man's soul, 
And looked on armies with a leader's 
eye ; 
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 
Whose leaves contain their country's 
history, 
And tales of love and war — listen to one 
Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of 
Bennington. 



When on that field his band the Hessians 
fought, 
Hriefly he spoke before the fight began : 
"Soldiers! those German gentlemen are 

bought 
For four pounds eight and seven pence 



per man, 



Co 



I3y England's king; a bargain, as is 
thought. 
Are we worth more? Let's prove it 
now we can ; 



For we must beat them, boys, ere set of 

sun, 
()k Maky Stakk'.s a wibow." It was 

done. 

IX 

ifcrs are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's 
spring. 
Nor the long summer of Cathayan 
vales, 
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, 
that fling 
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's 
tales 
()i Florence and the Arno; yet the wing 
Of life's best angel, Health, is on her 
gales - 70 

Through sun and snow; and in the au- 
tumn-time 
Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 



Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the 
mist that shrouds 
Her twilight hills — her cool and .starry 
eyes, 

The glorious splendor of her sunset 
clouds, 
The rainbow beauty of her forest- 
leaves, 

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds. 
Where'er his web of song her poet 
weaves ; 

And his mind's brightest vision but dis- 
plays 

The autumn scenery of his boyhood's 
days. 80 

XI 

And when you dream of woman, and her 

love ; 
Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle 

power ; 
The maiden listening in the moonlight 

grove, 
The mother smiling in her infant's 

bower ; 
Forms, features, worshipped while we 

breathe or move. 
Be by some spirit of your dreaming 

hour 
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the 

air 
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll 

find them there. 

XII I 



* There is no trace of the stanza under XII 
in any edition the editor has consulted. 



162 



AMERICAN POETRY 



They burnt their last witch in Connecti- 
cut 
About a century and a half ago ; 9° 

They made a school-house of her forfeit 
hut, 
And gave a pitying sweet-brier leave to 
grow 
Above her thankless ashes ; and they put 

A certified description of the show 
Between two weeping-willows, craped 

with black. 
On the last page of that year's almanac. 



Some warning and well-meant remarks 
were made 
Upon the subject by the weekly print- 
ers; 
The people murmured at the taxes laid 
To pay for jurymen and pitch-pine 
splinters, i°° 

And the sad story made the rose-leaf fade 
Upon young listeners' cheeks for sev- 
eral winters 
When told at fireside eves by those who 

saw 
Executed — the lady and the law. 

XV 

She and the law found rest: years rose 
and set ; 
That generation, cottagers and kings. 
Slept with their fathers, and the violet 
Has mourned above their graves a 
hundred springs : 
Few persons keep a file of the Gazette, 

And almanacs are sublunary things, "o 
So that her fame is almost lost to earth, 
As if she ne'er had breathed; and of her 
birth, 

XVI 

And death, and lonely life's mysterious 
matters. 
And how she played, in our forefathers' 
times. 

The very devil with their sons and daugh- 
ters; 
And how those "delicate Ariels" of her 
crimes, 

The spirits of the rocks, and woods, and 
waters, 
Obeyed her bidding when in charmed 
rhymes, 

She muttered, at deep midnight, spells 
whose power 

Woke from brief dream of dew the sleep- 
ing summer flower, i-o 



And hushed the night-bird's soHtal_ 
hymn, 
And spoke in whispers to the forest- 
tree, 

Till his awed branches trembled, leaf and 
limb. 
And grouped her churchyard shapes of 
fantasie 

Round merry moonlight's meadow-foun- 
tain's brim, 
And mocking for a space the dread 
decree. 

Brought back to dead, cold lips the parted 
breath, 

And changed to banquet-board the bier of 
death, 

XVIII 

None knew — except a patient, precious 
few. 
Who've read the folios of one Cotton 
Mather, 130 

A chronicler of tales more strange than 
true, J 

New England's chaplain, and her his- I 
tory's father; » 

A second Monmouth's Geoffrey, a new 
Herodotus, their laureled victor rather, 
For in one art he soars above them high : 
The Greek or Welshman does not always 
lie. 

XIX j 

Know ye the venerable Cotton? He 
Was the first publisher's tourist on this 
station ; 
The first who made, by labelling earth 
and sea, 
A huge book, and a handsome specula- 
tion : 140 
And ours was then a land of mystery, 11 
Fit theme for poetry's exaggeration, I 
The wildest wonder of the month; and 

there 
He wandered freely, like a bird or bear, 



And wove his forest dreams into quaint 
prose, 
Our sires his heroes, where, in holy 
strife, 
They treacherously war with friends and 
foes; 
Where meek religion wears the assas- 
sin's knife. 
And "bids the desert blossom like the 



rose. 
By sprinkling earth with blood of In- 
dian life, ISO 



I, 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



163 



And rears her altars o'er the indignant 

bones 
Or murdered maidens, wives, and little 

ones. 

XXI 

Herod of Galilee's babe-butchering deed 
Lives not on history's blushing page 
alone; 

Our skies, it seems, have seen like victims 
bleed, 
And our own Ramahs echoed groan for 
groan : 

The fiends of France, whose cruelties de- 
creed 
Those dextrous drownings in the Loire 
and Rhone, 

Were at their worst, but copyists second- 
hand 

Of our shrined, sainted sires, the Ply 
mouth pilgrim-band. 



i6o 



Or else fibs Mather. Kindred wolves 
have bayed 
Truth's moon in chorus, but believe 
them not ! 
Beneath the dark trees that the Lethe 
shade, 
Be he, his folios, followers, facts, forgot; 
And let his perishing monument be made 
Of his own unsold volumes: 'tis the lot 
Of many, may be mine; and be it Math- 
er's, 
That slanderer of the memory of our 
fathers. 

XXIII 

And who were they, our fathers? In 
their veins 
Ran the best blood of England's gentle- 
men : 170 
Her bravest in the strife on battle-plains, 
Her wisest in the strife of voice and 
pen; 
Her holiest, teaching, in her holiest fanes, 
The lore that led to martyrdom; and 
when 
On this side ocean slept their wearied 

sails. 
And their toil-bells woke up our thousand 
hills and dales. 



Shamed they their fathers? Ask the 
village-spires 
Above their Sabbath-homes of praise 
and prayer; 

Ask of their children's happy household- 
fires, 



And happier harvest noons ; ask sum- 
mer's air, 180 

Made merry by young voices, when the 
wires 
Of their school-cages are unloosed, and 
dare 

Their slanderers' breath to blight the 
memory 

That o'er their graves is "growing green 
to seel" 

XXV 

If he has "writ their annals true"; if they 
The Christian-sponsored and the Chris- 
tian-nursed, 
Clouded with crime the sunset of their day 
And warmed their winter's hearths with 
fires accursed ; 
And if the stain that time wears not away 
Of guilt was on the pilgrim axe that 
first 190 

Our wood-paths' roses blest with smiles 

from heaven. 
In charity forget, and hope to be for- 
given. 

XXVI 

Forget their story's cruelty and wrong; 

Forget their story-teller ; or but deem 

His facts the fictions of a minstrel's song. 

The myths and marvels of a poet's 

dream. 

And are they not such? Suddenly among 

My mind's dark thoughts its boyhood's 

sunrise beam 

Breathes in spring balm and beauty o'er 

my page — 
Joy ! joy ! my patriot wrath hath wronged 
the reverend sage. 200 

XXVII 

Welcome! young boyhood, welcome! Of 
thy lore. 
Thy morning-gathered wealth of prose 
and rhyme. 
Of fruit the flower, of gold the infant ore, 
The roughest shuns not manhood's 
stormy clime. 
But loves wild ocean's winds and break- 
ers' roar; 
While, of the blossoms of the sweet 
spring-time. 
The bonniest, and most beautiful of joy, 
Shrink from the man, and cling around 
the boy. 

XXVIII 

But now, like doves "with healing on 
their wings," 

Blossom and fruit with gladdening 

kindness come, 210 



164 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Charming to sleep my murmuring song, 
that sings, 
Unworthy dirges over Mather's tomb: 

Welcome the olive-branch their message 
brings ! 
It bids me wish him not the moulder- 
ing doom 

Of nameless scrives of "memoires pour 
servir," 

Dishonest "chroniclers of time's small- 
beer." 

XXIX 

No: a born Poet, at his cradle-fire 
The muses nursed him as their bud un- 
blown, 
And gave him as his mmd grew high 
and higher, 
Their ducal strawberry - leaf's en- 
wreathed renown. ^^° 
Alas! that mightiest masters of the lyre. 
Whose pens above an eagle's heart 
have grown. 
In all the proud 'nobility of wing. 
Should stoop to dip their points in pas- 
sion's poison-spring! 

XXX 

Yet Milton, weary of his youth's young 

wife. 
To her, to king, to church, to law un- 
true. 
Warred for divorce and discord to the 

knife. 
And proudest wore his plume of 

darkest hue : 
And Dante, when his Florence, in her 

strife. 
Robbed him of office and his temper, 

threw , , ^30 

'Mongst friends and foes a bomb-shell of 

fierce rhymes. 
Shivering their names and fames to all 

succeeding times. 

XXXI 

And our own Mather's fire-and-fagot 
tale 
Of conquest, with her garments rolled 
in blood," ^ 

And banners blackening, like a pirates 
sail. 
The Mayflower's memories of the brave 
and good, 
Though but a brain-born dream of rain 
and hail, 
And in his epic but an episode, 



Proves mournfully the strange and sad 
admission 

Of much sour grape- juice in his disposi- 
tion. ^40 

XXXII 

O Genius! powerful with thy praise or 

blame. 
When art thou feigning? when art thou 

sincere? 
Mather, who banned his living friends 

with shame, 
In funeral-sermons blessed them on 

their bier, 
And made their death-beds beautiful with 

fame — 
Fame true and gracious as a widow's 

tear 
To her departed darling husband given; 
Him whom she scolded up from earth to 

heaven. 

XXXIII 

Thanks for his funeral-sermons; they re- 
call 
The sunshine smiling through his folio's 
leaves, ^5° 

That makes his readers' hours in bower 
or hall 
Joyous as plighted hearts on bridal 
eves ; 
Chasing, like music from the soul of Saul, 
The doubt that darkens, and the ill that 
grieves ; 
And honoring the author's heart and mind. 
That beats to bless, and toils to ennoble 
human kind. 

XXXIV 

His chaplain-mantle worthily to wear. 
He fringed its sober gray with poet- 
bays. 
And versed the Psalms of David to the air 
Of Yankee-Doodle, for Thanksgiving- 
days ; ^^ 
Thus hallowing with the earnestness of 
prayer. 
And patriotic purity of praise. 
Unconscious of irreverence or wrong. 
Our manliest battle-tune and merriest 
bridal song. 



The good the Rhine-song does to German 
hearts. 
Or thine, Marseilles! to France's fiery 
blood; 
The good thy anthemed harmony imparts, 
"God, save the Queen!" to England's 
field and flood. 



I 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



165 



A home-born blessing, Nature's boon, not 

Art's ; 
The same heart-cheering, spirit-warmr 

ing good, 270 

To us and ours, where'er we war or woo. 
Thy words and music, Yankee-Doodle! 

—do. 

XXXVI 

Beneath thy Star, as one of the Thirteen, 
Land of my lay ! through many a 

battle's night 
Thy gallant men stepped steady and 

serene, 
To that war-music's stern and strong 

delight. 
Where bayonets clinched above the 

trampled green. 
Where sabres grappled in the ocean- 
fight; 
In siege, in storm, on deck or rampart, 

there 279 

They hunted the wolf Danger to his lair, 
And sought and won sweet Peace, and 

wreaths for Honor's hair ! 

XXXVII 

And with thy smiles, sweet Peace, came 
woman's, bringing 
The Eden-sunshine of her welcome kiss. 

And lovers' flutes, and children's voices 
singing 
The maiden's promised, matron's per- 
fect bliss. 

And heart and home-bells blending with 
their ringing 
Thank-offerings borne to holier worlds 
than this, 

And the proud green of Glory's laurel- 
leaves, 

And gold, the gift to Peace, of Plenty's 
summer sheaves. 

RED JACKET 1 

A Chief of the Indian Tribes, the 
Tuscaroras. 

On looking at his portrait by Weir. 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's 

woven. 

First in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 

A wanderer now in other climes,^ has 

proven 

His love for the young land he left 

behind ; 
^ "Red Jacket" appeared originally in 1828, 
soon after the publication of Mr. Cooper's 
"Notions of the Americans." 

^ Cooper was abroad from 1825 to 1832. 



And throned her in the senate-hall of 
nations, 
Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- 
wrought ; 
Magnificent as his own mind's creations. 
And beautiful as its green world of 
thought : 

And faithful to the Act of Congress, 

quoted 
As law authority, it passed nem. con. : lo 
He writes that we are, as ourselves have 

voted, 
The most enlightened people ever 

known. 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
In Paris, full of song, and dance, and 
laugh ; 
And that, from Orleans to the Bay of 
Fundy, 
There's not a bailiff or an epitaph: 

And furthermore — in fifty years, or 
sooner. 
We shall export our poetry and wine; 
And our brave fleet, eight frigates and 
a schooner. 
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to 
the Line. 20 

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora! 

Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded 
glory, 
Its eye's dark beauty, and its thought- 
ful brow — 

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, 
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings ; 

Well might he boast that we, the Demo- 
cratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our Kings! 

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's 

pages 

Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 

But that the forest tribes have bent for 

ages 31 

To thee, and to thy sires, the subject 

knee. 

Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 
Could make Red Jacket grace an Eng- 
lish rhyme, 
Though some one with a genius for the 
tragic 
Hath introduced it in a pantomime — 



166 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Yet it is music in the language spoken 
Of thine own land, and on her herald- 
roll ; 
As bravely fought for, and as proud a 
token 
As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 

40 

Thy garb— though Austria's bosom-star 
would frighten 
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark 
mine. 
And George the Fourth wore, at his court 
at Brighton 
A more becoming evening dress than 
thine ; 

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and 
weather, 
And fitted for thy couch, on field and 
flood, 
As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland 
heather. 
Or forest green for England's Robin 
Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a 
whaler's ? 
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as 
strong so 

As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant 
sailors, 
Heroes in history and gods in song. 

Is beauty? — Thine has with thy youth 
departed ; 
But the love-legends of thy manhood's 
years. 
And she who perished, young and broken- 
hearted. 
Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not 
for tears. 

Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that 
reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head 
its sport; 
And there's one rare, strange virtue in 
thy speeches. 
The secret of their mastery — they are 
short. 60 

The monarch mind, the mystery of com- 
manding, 
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, 
banding 
The hearts of millions till they move 
as one : 



Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have 
crowded 
The road to death as to a festival ; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchers, have 
shrouded 
With banner-folds of glory the dark 
pall. 

Who will believe? Not I^for in deceiv- 
ing 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful 
dream ; 7° 

1 cannot spare the luxury of believing 
That all things beautiful are what they 
seem : 

Who will believe that, with a smile whose 
blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a 
dying hour. 
With voice as low, as gentle, and caress- 
ing. 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit 
bower : 

With look like patient Job's eschewing 

evil ; 

With motions graceful as a bird's in 

air : 

Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 

That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's 

hair ! 80 

That in thy breast there springs a poison 
fountain, 
DeadHer than that where bathes the 
Upas-tree; 
And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o'-moun- 
tain 
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared 
with thee ! 

And underneath that face, like summer 
ocean's. 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as 
clear. 
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emo- 
tions, 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all 
save fear : 

Love — for thy land, as if she were thy 
daughter, 

Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in 

wars ; 90 

Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; 

Pride — ^in thy rifle-trophies and thy 

scars ; 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



167 



Hope— that thy wrongs may be, by the 
Great Spirit, 
Remembered and revenged when thou 
art gone ; 
Sorrow — that none are left thee to in- 
herit 
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and 
thy throne! 

The Talisman, 1828. 



THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED 
ARMS 

SARATOGA 

Strangers! your eyes are on that valley 

fixed 
Intently, as we gaze on vacaiicy. 

When the mind's wings o'erspread 

The spirit-world of dreams. 

True, 'tis a scene of loveliness — the bright 
Green dwelling of the summer's first born 
Hours, 

Whose wakened leaf and bud 

Are welcoming the morn. 

And morn returns the welcome, sun and 

cloud 
Smile on the green earth from their home 
in heaven, ^ '° 

Even as a mother smiles 
Above her cradled boy, 

And wreath their light and shade o'er 

plain and mountain. 
O'er sleepless seas of grass, whose waves 
are flowers, 
The river's golden shores, 
The forest of dark pines. 

The song of the wild bird is on the wind, 
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild 

Of waves upon the bank, 

Of leaves upon the bough. 20 

But all is song and beauty in the land. 
Beneath her skies of June; then journey 
on, 

A thousand scenes like this 

Will greet you ere the eve. 

Ye linger yet — ye see not, hear not now, 
The sunny smile, the music of to-day, 

Your thoughts are wandering up, 

Far up the stream of time; 



And boyhood's lore and fireside-listened 

tales 
Are rushing on your memories, as ye 
breathe 3° 

That valley's storied name, 
Field of the Grounded Arms. 

Strangers no more, a kindred "pride of 

place," 
Pride in the gift of country and of name, 

Speaks in your eye and step — 

Ye tread your native land. 

And your high thoughts are on her glory's 
day, 

The solemn sabbath of the week of battle, 
Whose tempests bowed to earth 
Her foeman's banner here. 40 

The forest-leaves lay scattered cold and 

dead. 
Upon the withered grass that autumn 
morn, 
When, with as widowed hearts 
And hopes as dead and cold, 

A gallant army formed their last array 
Upon that field, in silence and deep 
gloom. 
And at their conqueror's feet 
Laid their war-weapons down. 

Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dis- 
honored ; 
Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded 
there ; 50 

The soldier's trial-task 
Is not alone "to die." 

Honor to chivalry ! the conqueror's breath 
Stains not the ermine of his foeman's 
fame. 

Nor mocks his captive's doom — 

The bitterest cup of war. 

But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
Whose swords are lightning-flashes in the 
cloud 

Of the Invader's wrath. 

Threatening a gallant land ! 60 

His armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone 
Her slumbering echoes; from a thousand 
hills 

Her answering voices shout, 

And her bells ring to arms! 



16S 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Then danger hovers o'er tlic Invader's 

march, 
On raven wings, hushing tlic song of 
fame, 
And glory's hues of beauty 
Fade from the cheek of death. 

A foe is heard in every rustling leaf, 
A fortress seen in every rock and tree, 7«> 

The eagle eye of art 

Is dim and powerless then, 

And war becomes a people's joy, the drum 
Mans merriest music, and the field of 
death 

His couch of happy dreams, 

After life's harvest-home. 

He battles heart and arm, his own blue 

sky 
Above him, and his own green land 
around, 
Land of his father's grave. 
His blessing and his prayers : 80 



Land where he learned to lisp a mother's 

name. 
The first beloved in life, the last forgot 

Land of his frolic youth, ' 

Land of his hridaleve — 

Land of his children— vain your columned 

strength. 
Invaders ! vain your battles' steel and fire ! 

Choose ye the morrow's doom — 

A prison or a grave. 

And such were Saratoga's victors— such 
Ihe Yeoman-Rravo, whose deeds and 
death have given ga 

A glory to her skies, m 

A music to her name. ■ 



In honorable life her fields thev trod. 
In honorable death they sleep 'below ; 

Their sons' proud feelings here 

Their noblest monuments. 

1831 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

(1794- 1878 J 



THANATOPSIS i 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 

speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images '" 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 

heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all 

around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of 

air — 
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and 

thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold 

ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many 

tears, 20 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, 

shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering 

."P. . . 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever vith the elements, 

* Thanatopsis was written when Bryant was 
seventeen or eighteen years old. As ori!?inal)y 
printed in the North American Review, Septem- 
ber, 1817, it began at line 17 of the present 
arrangement: 

Yet a few days, and thee 
and ended with lines 65 and 66 

and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. 
As it now stands the poem was first published 
in the volume of poems put out in 1821. See 
"The Growth of Thanatopsis," by Carl van 
Doren, The Nation, October 7, 1915. 



To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 

swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. 

The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce 

thy mould. 30 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou 

wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — 

with kings. 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the 

good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 4° 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, 

poured round all. 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden 

sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the 

wings 50 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 

sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are 

there : 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there 

alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou with- 
draw 



169 



170 



AMERICAN POETRY 



In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that 

breathe ^ 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will 

laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood 

of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will 

chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and 

shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the 

long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in Hfe's green spring, and he 

who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and 

maid. 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed 

man — _ 7° 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who in their turn shall follow 

them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes 

to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each 

shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at 

night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained 

and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy 

grave. 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his 

couch ^° 

About him, and lies down to pleasant 

dreams. 
1811? 
North American Review, September, 1817. 

TO A WATERFOWL 

Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow, the heavens with the last 

steps of day. 
Far, through -their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 
Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 

wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky. 

Thy figure floats along. 



Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, lo 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless 

coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned. 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmos- 
phere. 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 20 

•And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 5 

rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reedsj 
shall bend. 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my 



I 



heart 



I 



Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast 
given, 
And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy cer- 
tain flight, 30 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

North American Review, 1815. 

O FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS 

O fairest of the rural maids! A 

Thy birth was in the forest shades; 9 

Green boughs, and ghmpses of the sky. 
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twihght of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; ^ 

Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen; 5 

Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 



i 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



171 



The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 



1820. 



"Poems," 1832. 



SUMMER WIND 



It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the 

faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee. 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then 

again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize 
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover 

droops _ ^° 

Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the 

hills, 
With all their growth of woods, silent 

and stern, 
As if the scorching heat and dazzling 

light 
Were but an element fhey loved. Bright 

clouds. 
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven — 
Their bases on the mountains — their white 

tops 
Shining in the far ether — fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie 20 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick 

turf, 
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun. 
Retains some freshness, and I woo the 

wind 
That still delays his coming. Why so 

slow, 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? 
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting 

earth 
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 
He hears me? See, on yonder woody 

ridge, 
The pine is bending his proud top, and 

now 
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and 

oak 30 

Are tossing their green boughs about. He 

comes ; 
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in 

waves ! 
The deep distressful silence of the scene 



Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered 

sounds 
And universal motion. He is come. 
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the 

shrubs. 
And bearing their fragrance; and he 

brings 
Music of birds, and rustling of young 

boughs. 
And sound of swaying branches, and the 

voice 
Of distant waterfalls. All the green 

herbs 4° 

Are stirring in his breath; a thousand 

flowers. 
By the road-side and the borders of the 

brook. 
Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves 
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
Were on them yet, and silver waters 

break 
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. 
1824. 

United States Literary Gazette, July 15, 
1824. 

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN 1 

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and 

the wild 
Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy 

foot 
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to 

forget 
The steep and toilsome way. There, as 

thou stand'st. 
The haunts of men below thee, and around 
The mountain - summits, thy expanding 

heart 
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier 

world 10 

To which thou art translated, and partake 
The enlargement of thy vision. Thou 

shalt look 
Upon the green and rolling forest-tops. 
And down into the secrets of the glens, 

^ The mountain called by this name is a re- 
markable precipice in Great Barrington, overlook- 
ing the rich and picturesque valley of the 
Housatonic, in the western part of Massa- 
chusetts. At the southern extremity is, or was 
a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, 
erected according to the tradition of the sur- 
rounding country, by the Indians, in memory 
of a young woman of the Stockbridge tribe who 
killed herself by leaping from the edge of the 
precipice. {Author's Note.) 



172 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And streams that with their bordering 

thickets strive 
To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, 

at once, 
Here on white villages, and tilth, and 

herds, 
And swarming roads, and there on soli- 
tudes 
That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 
And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice 
That seems a fragment of some mighty 
wall, 21 

Built by the hand that fashioned the old 

world, 
To separate its nations, and thrown down 
When the flood drowned them. To the 

north, a path 
Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 
Steep is the western side, shaggy and 

wild 
With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint. 
And many a hanging crag. But, to the 

east. 
Sheer to the vale go down the bare old 

cliffs- 
Huge pillars, that in middle heaven up- 
bear 30 
Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 
With moss, the growth of centuries, and 

there 
Of chalky whiteness where the thunder- 
bolt 
Has splintered them. It is a fearful tTiing 
To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 
Where storm and lightning, from that 

huge gray wall. 
Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at 

the base 
Dashed them in fragments, and to lay 

thine ear 

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 

Of winds, that struggle with the woods 

below, 40 

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the 

scene 
Is lovely round; a beautiful river there 
Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads. 
The paradise he made unto himself. 
Mining the soil for ages. On each side 
The fields swell upward to the hills; be- 
yond. 
Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 
The mountain-columns with which earth 
props heaven. 

There is a tale about these reverend 
rocks, 
A sad tradition of unhappy love, so 

And sorrows borne and ended, long ago. 



When over these fair vales the savage 

sought 
His game in the thick woods. There was 

a maid. 
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright- 
eyed. 
With wealth of raven tresses, a light| 

form. 
And a gay heart. About her cabin-door 
The wide old woods resounded with her| 

song 

And fairy laughter all the summer day. 
She loved her cousin ; such a love was 

deemed. 
By the morality of those stern tribes, ^o 
Incestuous, and she struggled hard and 

long 
Against her love, and reasoned with' her 

heart. 
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 
Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 
Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that 

passed 
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard 

no more ■ 

The accustomed song and laugh of her, ■ 

whose looks ■ 

Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, 

they said. 
Upon the Winter of their age. She went 
To weep where no eye saw, and was not 

found 70 

Where all the merry girls were met to 

dance. 
And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 
Nor when they gathered from the rustling 

husk 
The shining ear; nor when, by the river's 

side, 
They pulled the grape and startled the 

wild shades 
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed 

Indian dames 
Would whisper to each other, as they saw 
Her wasting form, and say, The girl will 

die. 

One day into the bosom of a friend, 
A playmate of her young and innocent 



years. 



80 



She poured her griefs. "Thou know'st, 

and thou alone," 
She said, "for I have told thee, all my 

love, 
And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 
All night I weep in darkness, and the 

morn 
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, 
That has no business on the earth. I hate 






WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



173 



The pastimes and the pleasant toils that 

once 
I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends 
Sound in my ear like mockings, and, at 

night, 
In dreams, my mother, from the land of 

souls, 90 

Calls me and chides me. All that look 

on me 
Do seem to know my shame; I cannot 

bear 
Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root 

out 
The love that wrings it so, and I must 

die." 

It was a summer morning, and they 

went 
To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy 

skins 
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the 

tribe 
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they 

deemed. 
Like worshippers of the elder time, that 

God 100 

Doth walk on the high places and affect 
The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She 

had on 
The ornaments with which her father 

loved 
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed 

girl, 
And bade her wear when stranger war- 
riors came 
To be his guests. Here the friends sat 

them down. 
And sang, all day, old songs of love and 

death. 
And decked the poor wan victim's hair 

with flowers. 
And prayed that safe and swift might be 

her way 
To the calm world of sunshine, where no 

grief _ "° 

Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 
Below her — waters resting in the embrace 
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted 

glades 
Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 
She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 
Of her own village peeping through the 

trees. 
And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 
Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 
And came to die for, a warm gush of 

tears ^^ 



Ran from her eyes. But when the sun 

grew low 
And the hill shadows long, she threw her- 
self 
From the steep rock and perished. There 

was scooped, 
Upon the mountain's southern slope, a 

grave ; 
And there they laid her, in the very garb 
With which the maiden decked herself 

for death. 
With the same withering wild-flowers in 

her hair. 
And o'er the mould that covered her, the 

tribe 
Built up a simple monument, a cone 
Of small loose stones. Thenceforward 

all who passed, ^3° 

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone 
In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. 
And Indians from the distant West, who 

come 
To visit where their fathers' bones are 

laid. 
Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day 
The mountain where the hapless maiden 

died 
Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 
1824. 

United States Literary Gazette, Sept. IS, 

1824. 

HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR 

The sad and solemn night 
Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; 

The glorious hosts of light 
Walk the dark hemisphere till she re- 
tires ; 
All through her silent watches, gliding 

slow. 
Her constellations come, and climb the 
heavens, and go. 

Day, too, hath many a star 
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright 
as they : 
Through the blue fields afar. 
Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows 
dim, " 

Tells what a radiant troop arose and set 
with him. 

And thou dost see them rise. 
Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see 
them set. 
Alone, in thy cold skies, 



174 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station 

yet. 
Nor join'st the dances of that gUttering 

train. 
Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the bUie 

western main. 

There, at morn's rosy birth, 
Thou lookest meekly through the kind- 
ling air, 30 
And eve, that round the earth 
Chases the day, beholds thee watching 
there ; 
There noontide finds thee, and the hour 

that calls 
The shapes of polar flame to scale heav- 
en's azure walls. 

Alike, beneath thine eye. 
The deeds of darkness and of light are 
done ; 
High toward the starlit sky 
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots 
the sun. 
The night storm on a thousand hills is 

loud. 
And the strong wind of day doth mingle 
sea and cloud. 3° 

On thy unaltering blaze 
The half-wrecked mariner, his compass 
lost. 
Fixes his steady gaze, 
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly 
coast ; 
And they who stray in perilous wastes, 

by night. 
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide 
their footsteps right. 

And. therefore, bards of old. 
Sages and hermits of the solemn wood. 

Did in thy beams behold 

A beauteous type of that unchanging 

good, 40 

That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 

The voyager of time should shape his 

heedful way. 
1825. 

United States Literary Gaaette, Jan. 15, 
1825. 

A FOREST HYMN 

The groves were God's first temples. 

Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
And spread the roof above them — ere he 

framed 



The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems; in the darkling 

wood. 
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down. 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn 

thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the 

place, 10 |, 

And from the gray old trunks that high ' 

in heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from 

the sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at 

once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and 

bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless 

power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we. in the world's riper years, 

neglect x 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised? Let 

me. at least. 2° 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. 
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find , 
Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns. 

Thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou 

didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and. forthwith, rose A 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in ^ 

thy sun. 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in 

thy breeze, 
x\nd shot toward heaven. The century- 
living crow. 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old 

and died 3° 

Among their branches, till, at last, they 

stood. 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and 

dark. 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim 

vaults. 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or 

pride 
Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the 

form 
Of tliy fair works. But Thou art here — 

thou fill'st 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



175 



The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these 

trees 40 

In music; Thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the 

place 
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, 

the ground. 
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct 

with Thee. 
Here is continual worship; — Nature, here. 
In the tranquillity that Thou dost love, 
F'njoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around. 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst 

its herbs, 
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps 

the roots so 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not 

left 
Thyself without a witness, in the shades, 
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, 

and grace 
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty 

oak — 
By whose immovable stem I stand and 

seem 
Almost annihilated — not a prince, 
In all that proud old world beyond the 

deep, 
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with 

which 60 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at 

his root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the 

glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest 

flower. 
With scented breath and look so like a 

smile. 
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless 

mould. 
An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this great universe. 

My heart is awed within me when I 
think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 70 
In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die — but see again. 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful 
youth 



In all its beautiful forms. These lofty 

trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not 

lost 80 

One of earth's charms: upon her bosom 

yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle 

hate 
Of his arch-enemy Death — yea, seats him- 
self 
Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he 

came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have 

no end. 

There have been holy men who hid 

themselves 9° 

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till 

they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor 

seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them; — .and there have been holy 

men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life 

thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps 

shrink 100 

And tremble and are still. O God ! when 

Thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set 

on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or 

fill. 
With all the waters of the firmament. 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots 

the woods 
And drowns the villages; when, at thy 

call, 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power. 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies 

by? Ill 

Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the 

wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 



176 



AMERICAN POETRY 



In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
1825. 
United States Literary Gazette, Apr. 1, 
1825. 



HYMN TO DEATH 1 

Oh ! could I hope the wise and pure in 

heart 
Might hear my song without a frown, nor 

deem 
My voice unworthy of the theme it 

tries, — 
I would take up the hymn to Death, and 

say 
To the grim power. The world hath 

slandered thee 
And mocked thee. On thy dim and shad- 
owy brow 
They place an iron crown, and call thee 

king 
Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world. 
Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the 

fair, 
The loved, the good — that breathest on 

the lights 10 

Of virtue set along the vale of life, 
And they go out in darkness. I am come, 
Not with reproaches, not with cries and 

prayers, 
Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible 

ear 
From the beginning; I am come to speak 
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept 
Thy conquests, and may weep them yet 

again. 
And thou from some I love wilt take a 

life 
Dear to me as my own. Yet while the 

spell 
Is on my spirit, and I talk v.'ith thee 20 
In sight of all thy trophies, face to face. 
Meet is it that my voice should utter forth 
Thy nobler triumphs ; I will teach the 

world 
To thank thee. Who are thine accusers? 

—Who? 
The living ! — they who never felt thy 

power, 
And know thee not. The curses of the 

wretch 
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings 

when thy hand 

* The poem was unfinished at the time of the 
death of Bryant's father in 1820. The conclud- 
ing lines, of course, refer to that event. 



Is on him, and the hour he dreads is 

come. 
Are writ among thy praises. But the 

good — 
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed 

to peace, 30 

Upbraid the gentle violence that took oflf 
His fetters, and unbarred his prison-cell? 

Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliv- 
erer ! 

God hath anointed thee to free the op- 
pressed 

And crush the oppressor. When the 
armed chief, 

The conqueror of nations, walks the world. 

And it is changed beneath his feet, and 
all 

Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm — 

Thou, while his head is loftiest and his 
heart 39 

Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 

Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp 

Upon him, and the links of that strong 
chain 

Which bound mankind are crumbled; 
thou dost break 

Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to 
dust. 

Then the earth shouts with gladness, and 
her tribes 

Gather within their ancient bounds again. 

Else had the mighty of the olden time, 

Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who 
feigned 

His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten 
yet 

The nations with a rod of iron, and driven 

Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost 
avenge, -' 

In thy good time, the wrongs of those 
who know 

No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose 

Only to lay the sufferer asleep. 

Where he who made him wretched 
troubles not 

His rest — thou dost strike down his ty- 
rant too. 

Oh, there is joy when hands that held 
the scourge 

Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. 

Thou too dost purge from earth its hor- 
rible 

And old idolatries ; — from the proud fanes 

Each to his grave their priests go out, till 
none 61 

Is left to teach their worship; then the 
fires 

Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



177 



O'ercreeps their altars ; the fallen images 
Lumber the weedy courts, and for loud 

hymns, 
Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind 
f hrieks m the solitary aisles. When he 
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at 

all 
The laws that God or man has made, and 

round 
Hedges his seat with power, and shines in 
wealth, — 70 

Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heav- 
en, 
And celebrates his shame in open day 
Thou, in the pride of all his crimes 
cutt St off ' 

The horrible example. Touched by thine 
The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the 

gold 
Wrung from the a'er-worn poor. The per- 
jurer. 
Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and 

voluble 
Against his neighbor's life, and he who 

laughed 
And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame 
-Blasted before his own foul calumnies, 80 
Are smit with deadly silence. He, who 
sold 

His conscience to preserve a worthless 

life. 
Even ^yhile he hugs himself on his escape, 
Irembles, as, doubly terrible, at length. 
Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no 

time 
For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy 

grasp. 
Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long 
f je his last hour. And when the reveller 
Mad m the chase of pleasure, stretches on' 
And strams each nerve, and clears the 

path of life 90 

Like wind, thou point'st him to the dread- 
ful goal, 
And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling 

eye, " 

And check'st him in mid course Thy 

skeleton hand 
Shows to the faint of spirit the riffht 

path, * 

And he is warned, and fears to step aside 
Ihou settst between the ruffian and his 

crime 
Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack 

hand 
Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most 

fearfully 
Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice 
when thy shafts 



Drink up the ebbing spirit-then the hard 
Ut heart and violent of hand restores loi 
Ihe treasure to the friendless wretch he 
wronged. 

Then from the writhing bosom thou dost 

pluck 

The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed, 
Are faithless to their dreadful trust at 

length. 
And give it up; the felon's latest breath 
Absolves the innocent man who bears his 

crime ; 

The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in 

tears, 
Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged 
To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost 

make 
1 hy penitent victim utter to the air 
the dark conspiracy that strikes at life 
And aims to whelm the laws ; ere yet the 

hour 
Is come, and the dread sign of murder 

given. 

Thus, from the first of time, hast thou 
been found 
On virtue's side; the wicked; but for thee 
Had been too strong for the good; the 

great of earth 
Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled 

in guile 
For ages while each passing year had 

brought 
Its baneful lesson, they had filled the 
world 120 

With their abominations ; while its tribes, 
Irodden to earth, imbruted. and despoiled, 
Had knelt to them in worship ; sacrifice 
Had smoked on many an altar, temple- 
roofs 
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer 

and hymn : 
But thou the great reformer of the world, 
iakst off the sons of violence and fraud 
In their green pupilage, their lore half 

learned — 
Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple 

heart 
God gave them at their birth, and blotted 

His image. Thou dost mark them flushed 

with hope, 
As on the threshold of their vast designs 
Uoubtful and loose they stand, and 

strik st them down. 



I 



Alas! I little thought that the stern 
power. 



178 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Whose fearful praise I sang, would try 

me thus 
Before the strain was ended. It must 

cease — 
For he is in his grave who taught my 

youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut oft' 
Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength. 
Ripened by years of toil and studious re- 
search, 141 
And watch of Nature's silent lessons, 

taught 
Thy hand to practise best the lenient 

art 
To which thou gavest thy laborious 

days. 
And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when 

the earth 
Received thee, tears were in imyielding 

eyes 
And on hard cheeks, and thev who deemed 

thy skill 
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and 

turned pale 
When thou wert gone. This faltering 

verse, which thou 
Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook. is all I 

have 150 

To offer at thy grave — this — and the hope 
To copy thy example, and to leave 
A name of which the wretched shall not 

think 
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive 
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, 

*thou 
Whose early guidance trained my infant 

steps — 
Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief 

sleep 
Of death is over, and a happier life 
Shall dawn to waken thy insensible dust. 

Now thou art not — and yet the men 

whose guilt 160 

Has wearied Heaven for vengeance — he 

who bears 
False witness — he who takes the orphan's 

bread. 
And robs the widow — he who spreads 

abroad 
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer. 
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering 

I look 
On what is written, yet I blot not out 
The desultory numbers ; let them stand, 
The record of an idle revery. 

The New York Reviczc, Oct., 1825. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 

The melancholy days are come, the sad- 
dest of the year. 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the 
autumn leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to 
the rabbit's tread; 

The robin and the wren are flown, and 
from the shrubs the jay. 

And from the wood-top calls the crow 
through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young 
flowers, that lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beaute- 
ous sisterhood? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves, the 
gentle race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the 
fair and good of ours. 1° 

The rain is falling where they lie, but 
cold November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 
lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 
ished long ago. 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died 
amid the summer glow; 

But on the hills the golden-rod, and the 
aster in the wood. 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, 
in autumn beauty stood. 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold 
heaven, as falls the plague on men. 

And the brightness of their smile was 
gone, from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, 

as still such days will come. 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out 

their winter home; ^ 

When the sound of dropping nuts is 

heard, though all the trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the 

waters of the rill. 
The south wind searches for the flowers 

whose fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and 

by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her 

youthful beauty died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and 

faded by my side. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



179 



In the coir] moist earth we laid her, when 

the forests cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should 

have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 

young friend of ours. 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 

with the flowers. 30 



1825. 



New York Review, Nov., 1825. 



"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD 
ME LONG" 

I broke the spell that held me long. 

The dear, dear witchery of song. 

I said, the poet's idle lore 

Shall waste my prime of years no more, 

For Poetry, though heavenly born. 

Consorts with poverty and scorn. 

I broke the spell — nor deemed its power 
Could fetter me another hour. 
Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget 
Its causes were around me yet? 10 

For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, 
Was Nature's everlasting smile. 

Still came and lingered on my sight 

Of flowers and streams the bloom and 

light, 
And glory of the stars and sun; — 
And these and poetry are one. 
They, ere the world had held me long. 
Recalled me to the love of song. 



1824. 



Atlantic Souvenir, 1825. 



"I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT 
FERVID DEVOTION" 

I cannot forget with what fervid devotion 
I worshipped the visions of verse and 
of fame; 
Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and 
ocean. 
To my kindled emotions, was wind over 
flame. 

And deep were my musings in life's early 
blossom, 
Mid the twilight of mountain-groves 
wandering long; 
How thrilled my young veins, and how 
throbbed my full bosom, 
When o'er me descended the spirit of 
song! 



'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages 
had listened 
To the rush of the pebble-paved river 
between, 10 

Where the kingfisher screamed and gray 
precipice glistened, 
All breathless with awe have I gazed on 
the scene; 

Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries 
stealing. 
From the gloom of the thicket that over 
me hung. 
And the thoughts that awoke, in that 
rapture of feeling. 
Were formed into verse as they rose to 
my tongue. 

Bright visions! I mixed with the world, 
and ye faded, 
No longer your pure rural worshipper 
now; 
In the haunts your continual presence 
pervaded, 
Ye shrink from the signet of care on 
my brow. 20 

In the old mossy groves on the breast of 
the mountains, 
In deep lonely glens where the waters 
complain, 
By the shade of the rock, by the gush of 
the fountain, 
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek 
them in vain. 

Oh, leave not forlorn and forever for- 
saken. 
Your pupil and victim to life and its 
tears ! 
But sometimes return, and in mercy 
awaken 
The glories ye showed to his earlier 
years. 

1815-1826. New York Review, Feb., 1826. 



JUNEi 

I gazed upon the glorious sky 
And the green mountains round, 

And thought that when I came to lie 
At rest within the ground, 

'T were pleasant, that in flowery June, 

When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 
* Bryant died in June, 1878. 



180 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain - turf should 
break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 'o 

A coffin borne through sleet, 
And icy clods above it rolled, 

While fierce the tempests beat — 
Away! — I will not think of these — 
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 

Earth green beneath the feet. 
And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest. 

There through the long, long summer 
hours. 

The golden light should lie, 20 

And thick young herbs and groups of 
flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 

Come, from the village sent, 
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon 3° 

With fairy laughter blent? 
And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 

Of my low monument? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know that I no more should see 

The season's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow ; 40 

But if, around my place of sleep, 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs, and song, and Hght, and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 

The thought of what has been, 
And speak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene; 
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 5° 
The circuit of the sijmmer hills, 

Is that his grave is green; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
Tc hear again his living voice. 



A MEDITATION ON RHODE 
ISLAND COALi 

"Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam 
Cesariem regnum, non Candida virginis ornat 1 
Colla, nee insigni splendet per cingula morsuM 
Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, y 

Tune superat pulchos cultus et quicquid Eois 
Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga." 

— Claudian. 

I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh 
heaped ■ 

With Newport coal, and as the flame 
grew bright 

— The many-colored flame — and played 
and leaped, 
I thought of rainbows, and the northern- 
light, 

Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Re^ 
port, 

And other brilliant matters of the sort. 



At last I thought .of .that fair isle which, 

sent 

The mineral fuel; on a summer day 

I saw it once, with heat and travel spent. 

And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the 

hollow way. 

Now dragged through sand, now jolted 

over stone — 
A rugged road through rugged Tiverton, 



1825. 



Atlantic Souvenir, 1826. 



And hotter grew the air, and hollower 

grew 
The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, 

I thought. 
Where will this dreary passage lead me 

t9? 
This long dull road, so narrow, deep, 

and hot? 
I looked to see it dive in earth outright; 
I looked — but saw a far more welcome 

sight. 

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore. 

At once a lovely isle before me lay, 20 

Smooth, and with tender verdure covered 

o'er, 

As if just risen from its calm inland 

bay; 

Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge,- 

And the small waves that dallied with the; 

sedge. 

1 Bryant went to New York in 1825. It wasl 
perhaps the influence of the American followers! 
of Byron in New York City rather than ofj 
Byron himself that suggested to Bryant the fewj 
poems of the type of the "Meditation on Rhodej 
Island Coal." 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



181 



The barley was just reaped; the heavy- 
sheaves 
Lay on the stubble-field ; the trail maize 
stood 

Dark in its summer growth, and shook 
its leaves, 
And bright the sunlight played on the 
young wood — 

For fifty years ago, the old men say. 

The Briton hewed their ancient groves 
away. 3° 

I saw where fountains freshened the 
green land, 
And where the pleasant road, from 
door to door. 

With rows of cherry-trees on either hand. 
Went wandering all that fertile region 
o'er — 

Rogue's Island once — but when the rogues 
were dead, 

Rhode Island was the name it took in- 
stead. 

Beautiful island ! then it only seemed 
*A lovely stranger; it has grown a 
friend. 
I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never 
dreamed 
How soon that green and quiet isle 
would send 4o 

The treasures of its womb across the sea, 
To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. 

T)ark anthracite! that reddenest on my 
hearth. 
Thou in those island mines didst slum- 
ber long; 

But now thou art come forth to move 
the earth, 
And put to shame the men that mean 
thee wrong: 

Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that 
hate thee. 

And warm the shins of all that under- 
rate thee. 

Yea, they did wrong thee foully — they 
who mocked 
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst 
not burn; so 

Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked. 
And grew profane, and swore, in bitter 
scorn, 

That men might to thy inner caves re- 
tire. 

And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. 



Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to 

state, 
That I too have seen greatness — even 

I— 
Shook hands with Adams, stared at La 

Fayette, 
When, barehead, in the hot noon of 

July, 
He would not let the umbrella be held 

o'er him, 
For which three cheers burst from the 

mob before him. 60 

And I have seen — not many months ago — 

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras 
And military coat, a glorious show ! 

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah ! 
How oft he smiled and bowed to Jona- 
than! 
How many hands were shook and votes 
were won! 

'Twas a great Governor ; thou too shalt be 
Great in thy turn, and wide shall spread 
thy fame 

And swiftly; furthest Maine shall hear of 
thee, 
And cold New Brunswick gladden at 
thy name ; 7° 

And, faintly through its sleets, the weep- 
ing isle 

That sends the Boston folks their cod 
shall smile. 

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and 
shalt heat 
The hissing rivers into steam and drive 
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron 
feet. 
Walking their steady way, as if alive. 
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, 
And South as far as the grim Spaniard 
lets thee. 

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim 
the sea. 
Like its own monsters — ^boats that for 



a gumea 



80 



Will take a man to Havre — and shalt be 
The moving soul of many a spinning- 
jenny. 
And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear 
As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. 

Then we will laugh at winter when we 

hear 
The grim old churl about our dwellings 

rave: 
Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted 

year," 



182 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper 
gave, 
And pull him from his sledge, and drag 

him in. 
And melt the icicles from off his chin. 9° 

1826. New York Review, April, 1826. 



THE PAST 

Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark 
domain, 

And fetters, sure and fast. 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn. 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom. 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Young, Manhood, Age that draws us to 
the ground, lo 

And last, Man's Life on earth, 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are 
bound. 

Thou hast my better years ; 
Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, 
the kind, 

Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form, the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back— yearns with desire 
intense. 
And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives 
thence. ^ 

In vain; thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence de- 
part; 
Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken 
heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence imknown ; to thee 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea ; 

Labors of good to man. 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, 3o 

Love, that midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and faltered not 
in death. 



I 

unre-«! 



Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, 
vered; 

With thee are silent fame. 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 

Thine for a space are they — 1: 

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up atl 

last: 1 1 

Thy gates shall yet give way, |{ 

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! 4o ' 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest 
time. 

Shall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

They have not perished — no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once so 
sweet, 

Smiles, radiant long ago. 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 

All shall come back ; each tie . . 

Of pure affection shall be knit again; 50| 

Alone shall Evil die, fl 

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung. 

And her, who, still and cold. 
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and 
young.i 

1828. Talisman, 1829. 



THE TWENTY-SECOND OF 
DECEMBER 

Wild was the day; the wintry sea 

Moaned sadly on New England's strand, 

When first the thoughtful and the free, 
Our fathers, trod the desert land. 

They little thought how pure a light. 
With years, should gather round that 
day; 
How love should keep their memories 
bright. 
How wide a realm their sons should 
sway. 

Green are their bays ; but greener still 
Shall round their spreading fame be 
wreathed, lo 

And regions, now untrod, shall thrill 
With reverence when their names are 
breathed. 

^ Bryant's father and sister. 4 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



183 



Till where the sun, with softer fires, 
Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep. 

The children of the pilgrim sires 
This hallowed day like us shall keep. 

1829 

THE EVENING WIND 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, 
thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry 
day, 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my 
brow; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till 

now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering 

high their spray, 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome 

thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of 

the sea ! 

Nor I. alone; a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses 
bound " 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of 
night; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful 
sound, 
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond 
the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade; go 

forth, 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting 
earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, 

and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic 

rest. 
Summoning from the innumerable 

boughs 20 

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt 

his breast; 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly 

bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters 

pass, 
And where the o'ershadowing branches 

sweep the grass. . 

The faint old man shall lean his silver 
head 



To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child 
asleep, 
And dry the moistened curls that over- 
spread 
His temples, while his breathing grows 
more deep; 
And they who stand about the sick man's 
bed. 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 
And softly part his curtains to allow 31 
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change. 
Which is the life of Nature, shall re- 
store. 
With sounds and scents from all thy 

mighty range. 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once 

more; 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and 

strange. 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the 

shore; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall 

deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running 

stream. 40 



1829. 



Talisman, 1830. 



HYMN OF THE CITY 



Not in the solitude 
Alone may man commune with Heaven, 
or see. 
Only in savage wood 
And sunny vale, the present Deity; 

Or only hear his voice 
Where the winds whisper and the waves 
rejoice. 

Even here do I behold 
Thy steps. Almighty! — here, amidst the 
crowd 
Through the great city rolled, 
With everlasting murmur deep and loud — 
Choking the ways that wind 1° 

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of hu- 
man kind. 

Thy golden sunshine comes 
From the round heaven, and on their 
dwellings lies 
And lights their inner homes ; 
For them Thou fill'st with air the un- 
bounded skies. 
And givest them the stores 
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 



184 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Thy Spirit is around, 
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps 
along ; 20 

And this eternal sound — 
Voices and footfalls of the numberless 
throng — 
Like the resounding sea, 
Or like the rainy tempests, speaks of Thee. 

And when the hour of rest 
Comes, like a calm upon the mid-sea 
brine, 
Hushing its billowy breast — 
The quiet of that moment too is thine; 

It breathes of Him who keeps 
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 

30 



1830? 



Christian Examiner, 1830. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN i 

Our band is few but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood. 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
We know its walls of thorny vines. 

Its glades of reedy grass, 1° 

Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear : 
When, waking to their tents on fire. 

They grasp their arms in vain. 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 20 

And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind. 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

* The exploits of General Francis Marion, the 
famous partisan warrior of _ South Carolina, 
form an interesting chapter in the annals of 
the American Revolution. The British troops 
were so harassed by the irregular and successful 
warfare which he kept up at the head of a few 
daring followers, that they sent an officer to 
remonstrate with him for not coming into the 
open field and fighting "like a gentleman and 
a Christian." (Author's Note.) 

For Irving's change in the English edition 
of 1832, see pages 131-3 of W, A. Bradley's 
"Bryant" (E. M. L. Series.) 



Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up, 30 

And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles. 

The scampering of their steeds. 4° 

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlight plain ; 
'Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts the tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away 
Back to the pathless forest. 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs ; 5° 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer. 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

Forever, from our shore. 60 

1831. 1831. 

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 2 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs un- 
seen. 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone. 
When woods are bare and birds are 
flown, 10 

And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

^ This was reprinted in The Knickerbocker Maga- 
zine, January, 1844. 



I 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



185 



Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky. 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to heaven as I depart. 



1829. 



"Poems," 1832. 



SEVENTY-SIX 

What heroes from the woodland sprung. 
When, through the fresh-awakened 
land. 
The thrilling cry of warfare rung 
And to the work of warfare strung 
The yeoman's iron hand ! 

Hills flung the cry to hills around, 
And ocean-mart replied to mart. 

And streams, whose springs were yet un- 
found. 

Pealed far away the startling sound 
Into the forest's heart. lo 

Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 

From mountain-river swift and cold; 
The borders of the stormy deep. 
The vales where gathered waters sleep. 
Sent up the strong and bold, — 

As if the very earth again 

Grew quick with God's creating breath ; 
And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 

To battle to the death. 20 

The wife, whose babe first smiled that 
day, 

The fair fond bride of yestereve, 
And aged sire and matron gray. 
Saw the loved warriors haste away, 

And deemed it sin to grieve. 

Already had the strife begun; 

Already blood, on Concord's plain, 
Along the springing grass had run. 
And blood had flowed at Lexington, 

Like brooks of April rain. 30 

That death-stain on the vernal sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the shore; 

In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 

The footstep of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. 

And fiery hearts and armed bands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her 
brave — 

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 10 

And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 
The black-mouthed gun and staggering 
wain; 

Men start not at the battle-cry, 
Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare ^only ends with life. 20 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year, 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot. 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown — ^yet faint thou 
not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; 3° 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last. 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, 
Th' eternal years of God are hers; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. 
When they who helped thee flee in fear. 

Die full of hope and manly tr,ust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 4° 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave. 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er tby grave. 



New York Mirror, May, 1835 1837. Democratic Review, Oct., 1837. 



186 



AMERICAN • POETRY 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM 

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled 

pines. 
That stream with gray-green mosses; 

here the ground 
Was never trenched by spade, and flow- 
ers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 
To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, 

and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they 

pass, 
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 
With pale-blue berries. In these peaceful 

shades — 
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
My thoughts go up the long dim path of 

years, " 

Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 
A fair young girl, with light and delicate 

limbs. 
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crowned 

his slave 
When he took off the gyves. A bearded 

man, 
Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed 

hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the 

sword ; thy brow. 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars; thy massive 

limbs 21 

Are strong with struggling. Power at 

thee has launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten 

thee; 
They could not quench the life thou hast 

from heaven ; 
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon 

deep, 
And his swart armorers, by a thousand 

fires. 
Have forged thy chain; yet, while he 

deems thee bound. 
The links are shivered, and the prison- 
walls 
Fall outward; terribly thou springest 

forth. 
As springs the flame above a burning pile. 
And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor 

flies. 32 



Thy birthright was not given by human 

hands : 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleas- 
ant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st 

with him. 
To tend the quiet flock and watch the 

stars. 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 
His only foes; and thou with him didst 
draw 40 

The earliest furrow on the mountain- 
side. 
Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, 
Thy enemy, although of reverend look, 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. 
Is later born than thou : and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse 

of years. 
But he shall fade into a feebler age — 
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his 

snares, so 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and 

clap 
His withered hands, and from their am- 
bush call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall 

send 
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant 

forms 
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful 

words 
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by 

stealth. 
Twine round thee threads of steel, light 

thread on thread. 
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy 

arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! 

not yet 
Mavst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay 
'by ^ 

Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom ! close 

thy lids 
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps, 
And thou must watch and combat till the 

day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But 

wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of 

men. 
These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest-trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



187 



And yet the moss-stains on the rock were 
new, 

Beheld thy glorious childhood, and re- 
joiced. 70 

1842. 

Knickerbocker Magazine, Feb., 1842. 

"O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE" 

O mother of a mighty race, 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
Admire and hate thy blooming years. 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red ; 
Thy step — the wild-deer's rustling feet 
Within thy woods are not more fleet; 1° 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy ehildren bide ; 20 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley- 
shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; — 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the West; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes. 
And where the ocean border foams. 3° 

There's freedom at thy gates and rest 
For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds, 
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. 

O fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of the skies 
The thronging years in glory rise, 40 

And, as they fleet. 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 



Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 
And when thy sisters, elder born. 
Would brand thy name with words of 
scorn. 
Before thine eye. 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 

1846. Graham's Magazine, July, 1847. 

ROBERT OF LINCOLN 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame. 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 10 

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his 
crest. 
Hear him call in his merry note: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife. 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown 
wings, 20 

Passing at home a patient life. 
Broods in the grass while her husband 
sings : 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 

One weak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 3° 
Pouring boasts from his little throat: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can ! 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay. 
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! 

There as the mother sits all day, _ 
Robert is singing with all his might: 4° 



188 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-Hnk, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out. 
Keeping house while I frohc about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the httle ones chip the shell. 

Six wide mouths are open for food; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 5° 

Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 

Sober with work, and silent with care; 
Off is his holiday garment laid. 
Half forgotten that merry air: 
Bob-o'-link. bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 60 

Nobody knows but m}' mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 71 
Chee, chee, chee. 

1855. Putnam's Magazine, June, 1855. 



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE- 
TREE 

Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 
Cleave the tough greensward with the 

spade ; 
Wide let its hollow bed be made ; 
There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care. 

And press it o'er them tenderly, 
As, round the sleeping infant's feet. 
We softly fold the cradle-sheet; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 10 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ;, 
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson 

breast. 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; 



We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 20 
To load the May-wind's restless wings, 
When, from the orchard-row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors; 

A world of blossoms for the bee. 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon, 30 

And drop, when gentle airs come by. 
That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee. 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 

At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree, 
The winter stars are quivering bright, 
And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with 
mirth, 40 

Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth. 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 
And golden orange of the line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 

The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar. 
Where men shall wonder at the view. 
And ask in what fair groves they grew; 

And sojourners beyond the sea si 

Shall think of childhood's careless day. 
And long, long hours of summer play. 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom. 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower. 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 6^ 
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



189 



Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 7° 
Of those who live when length of years 

Is wasting this little apple-tree? 

"Who planted this old apple-tree?" 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem. 
The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

"A poet of the land was he, 
Born in the rude but good old times; 
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, 

On planting the apple-tree." 8i 

1849. Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1864. 



OUR COUNTRY'S CALL 

Lay down the axe ; fling by the spade ; 

Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
The rifle and the bayonet-blade 

For arms like yours were fitter now; 
And let the hands that ply the pen 

Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 

The charger on the battle-field. 

Our country calls ; away ! away ! 

To where the blood-stream blots the 
green. ^o 

Strike to defend the gentlest sway 

That Time in all his course has seen. 
See, from a thousand coverts — see. 

Spring the armed foes that haunt her 
track ; 
They rush to smite her down, and we 

Must beat the banded traitors back. 

Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave. 

And moved as soon to fear and flight. 
Men of the glade and forest ! leave '9 

Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 
The arms that wield the axe must pour 

An iron tempest on the foe ; 
His serried ranks shall reel before 

The arm that lays the panther low. 

And ye who breast the mountain-storm 

By grassy steep or highland lake. 
Come, for the land ye love, to form 

A bulwark that no foe can break. 
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock 

The whirlwind, stand in her defence; 3° 
The blast as soon shall move the rock 

As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 



And ye whose homes are by her grand 

Swift rivers, rising far away. 
Come from the depth of her green land, 

As mighty in your march as they; 
As terrible as when the rains 

Have swelled them over bank and 
bourne. 
With sudden floods to drown the plains 

And sweep along the woods uptorn. 4° 

And ye who throng, beside the deep. 

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, 
In number like the waves that leap 

On his long-murmuring marge of sand — 
Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim. 

He rises, all his floods to pour. 
And flings the proudest barks that swim, 

A helpless wreck, against the shore ! 

Few, few were they whose swords of old 

Won the fair land in which we dwell; 
But we are many, we who hold si 

The grim resolve to guard it well. 
Strike, for that broad and goodly land. 

Blow after blow, till men shall see 
That Might and Right move hand in hand, 

And glorious must their triumph be! 
September, 1861. 

New York Ledger, Nov. 2, 1861. 



THE SONG OF THE SOWER 



The maples redden in the sun ; 

In autumn gold the beaches stand; 
Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done 

Upon the teeming land. 
Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly 
On every breath that sweeps the sky. 
The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, 

And ask the sower's hand. 
Loose the tired steer and let him go 
To pasture where the' gentians blow, i° 
And we, who till the grateful ground. 
Fling we the golden shower around. 



Fling wide the generous grain; we fling 
O'er the dark mould the green of spring. 
For thick the emerald blades shall grow. 
When first the March winds melt the snow, 
And to the sleeping flowers, below. 

The early bluebirds sing. 
Fling wide the grain; we give the fields 

The ears that nod in summer's gale, 20 
The shining stems that summer gilds, 

The harvest that o'erflows the vale, 



190 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And swells, an amber sea, between 
The full-leaved woods, its shores of green. 
Hark ! from the murmuring clods I hear 
Glad voices of the coming year; 
The song of him who binds the grain, 
The shout of those that load the wain. 
And from the distant grange there comes 

The clatter of the thresher's flail, 3° 
And steadily the millstone hums 

Down in the willowy vale. 



Fling wide the golden shower; we trust 
The strength of armies to the dust. 
This peaceful lea may haply yield 
Its harvest for the tented field. 
Ha ! feel ye not your fingers thrill. 

As o'er them, in the yellow grains. 
Glide the warm drops of blood that fill, 

For mortal strife, the warrior's veins; 
Such as, on Solferino's day, 41 

Slaked the brown sand and flowed away — 
Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink, 
Snuffed the red stream and feared to 

drink ; — 
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie, 

On the sad earth, as time grows gray, 
When men by deadlier arts shall die, 
And deeper darkness blot the sky 

Above the thundering fray; 
And realms, that hear the battle-cry, 5° 

Shall sicken with dismay; 
And chieftains to the war shall lead 
Whole nations, with the tempest's speed. 

To perish in a day; — 
Till man, by love and mercy taught, 
Shall rue the wreck his fury wrought. 

And lay the sword away ! 
Oh strew, with pausing, shuddering hand. 
The seed upon the helpless land, 
As if, at every step, ye cast ^ 

The pelting hail and riving blast. 



IV 

Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep. 

The seed upon the expecting soil; 
For hence the plenteous year shall heap 

The garners of the men who toil. 
Strew the bright seed for those who tear 
The matted sward with spade and share. 
And those whose sounding axes gleam 
Beside the lonely forest stream, 

Till its broad banks lie bare; 7° 

And him who breaks the quarry-ledge, 

With hammer-blows, plied quick and 
strong, 
And him who, with the steady sledge, 



Smites the shrill anvil all day long. 
Sprinkle the furrow's even trace 

For those whose toihng hands uprear 
The roof-trees of our swarming race, 

By grove and plain, by stream and 
mere ; 
Who forth, from crowded city, lead 

The lengthening street, and overlay 80 
Green orchard-plot and grassy mead 

With pavement of the murmuring way. 
Cast, with full hands the harvest cast, 
For the brave men that climb the mast, 
When to the billow and the blast, 

It swings and stoops, with fearful 
strain. 
And bind the fluttering mainsail fast, 

Till the tossed bark shall sit, again, 

Safe as a sea-bird on the main. 



Fling wide the grain for those who throw 
The clanking shuttle to and fro, 9' 

In the long row of humming rooms, 

And into ponderous masses wind 
The web that, from a thousand looms. 

Comes forth to clothe mankind. 
Strew, with free sweep, the grain for 
them. 

By whom the busy thread 
Along the garment's even hem 

And winding seam is led; 
A pallid sisterhood, that keep 10° 

The lonely lamp alight, 
In strife with weariness and sleep, 

Be3^ond the middle night. 
Large part be theirs in what the year 
Shall ripen for the reaper here. 



Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheat 
On the soft mould beneath our feet. 

For even now I seem 
To hear a sound that lightly rings 
From murmuring harp and viol's strings, 

As in a summer dream. "i 

The welcome of the wedding-guest. 

The bridegroom's look of bashful pride. 

The faint smile of the pallid bride. 
And bridesmaid's blush at matron's jest. 
And dance and song and generous dower. 
Are in the shining grains we shower. 



Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men, 
Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again 

In the sweet safety of the shore, i-° 
And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear. 
Whose pulses bound with joy to hear 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



191 



The herd's light bell once more. 

Freely the golden spray be shed 
For him whose heart, when night comes 

down 
On the close alleys of the town, 

Is faint for lack of bread. 
In chill roof-chambers, bleak and bare, 
Or the damp cellar's stifling air. 
She who now sees, in mute despair, 130 

Her children pine for food. 
Shall feel the dews of gladness start 
To lids long tearless, and shall part 
The sweet loaf with a grateful heart. 

Among her thin pale brood. 
Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till! 
Oh, for thy famished children, fill. 

Where'er the sower walks, 
Fill the rich ears that shade the mould 
With grain for grain, a hundredfold, ho 

To bend the sturdy stalks. 



Strew silently the fruitful seed. 

As softly o'er the tilth ye tread, 
For hands that delicately knead 

The consecrated bread — 
The mystic loaf that crowns the board. 
When, round the table of their Lord, 

Within a thousand temples set. 
In memory of the bitter death 
Of Him who taught at Nazareth, iso 

His followers are met. 
And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, 

As of the Holy One they think, 
The glory of whose rising yet 

Makes bright the grave's mysterious 
brink. 

IX 

Brethren, the sower's task is done. 
The seed is in its winter bed. 
Now let the dark-brown mould be spread. 

To hide it from the sun. 
And leave it to the kindly care 
Of the still earth and brooding air, 160 
As when the mother, from her breast, 
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest. 
And shades its eyes, and waits to see 
How sweet its waking smile will be. 
The tempest now may smite, the sleet 
All night on the drowned furrow beat. 
And winds that, from the cloudy hold, 
Of winter breathe the bitter cold, 
Stiffen to stone the mellow mould. 

Yet safe shall lie the wheat; 170 

Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue. 

Shall walk again the genial year, 
To wake with warmth and nurse with dew 

The germs we lay to slumber here. 



Oh blessed harvest yet to be! 

Abide thou with the Love that keeps, 
In its warm bosom, tenderly. 

The Life which wakes and that which 
sleeps. 
The Love that leads the willing spheres • 
Along the unending track of years, 'So 

And watches o'er the sparrow's nest, 
Shall brood above thy winter rest. 
And raise thee from the dust, to hold 

Light whisperings with the winds of 
May, 
And fill thy spikes with living gold, 

From summer's yellow ray; 
Then, as thy garners give thee forth. 

On what glad errands shalt thou go. 
Wherever, o'er the waiting earth, 

Roads wind and rivers flow; ^9° 

The ancient East shall welcome thee 
To mighty marts beyond the sea. 
And they who dwell where palm-groves 

sound 
To summer winds the whole year round. 
Shall watch, in gladness,* from the shore, 
The sails that bring thy glistening store. 



1859. 



'Thirty Poems," 1864. 



THE POET 

Thou who wouldst wear the name 

Of poet 'mid thy brethren of mankind. 

And clothe in words of flame 

Thoughts that shall live within the gen- 
eral mind ! 

Deem not the framing of a deathless lay 

The pastime of a drowsy summer day. 

But gather all thy powers 
And wreak them on the verse that thou 
dost weave. 
And in thy lonely hours, 

At silent morning or at wakeful eve, ^° 
While the warm current tingles through 

thy veins 
Set forth the burning words in fluent 
strains. 

No smooth array of phrase. 
Artfully sought and ordered though it 
be. 
Which the cold rhymer lays 

Upon his page with languid industry. 
Can wake the listless pulse to livelier 

speed, 
Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that 
read. 



192 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The secret wouldst thou know- 
To touch the heart or fire the blood at 
will? 20 

Let thine own eyes o'erflow ; 

Let thy lips quiver with the passionate 
thrill; 
Seize the great thought, ere yet its power 

be past, 
And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. 

Then, should thy verse appear 

Halting and harsh, and all unaptly 

wrought. 
Touch the crude line with fear, 

Save in the moment of impassioned 

thought ; 
Then summon back the original glow, and 

mend 
The strain with rapture that with fire 

was penned. 3° 

Yet let no empty gust 

Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, 
A blast that whirls the dust 

Along the howling street and dies away; 
But feelings of calm power and mighty 

sweep. 
Like currents journeying through the 
windless deep. 

Seek'st thou, in living lays, 
To limn the beauty of the earth and 
sky? 
Before thine inner gaze 

Let all that beauty in clear vision lie; 4° 
Look on it with exceeding love, and write 
The words inspired by wonder and de- 
light. 

Of tempests wouldst thou sing, 

Or tell of battles — make thyself a part 
Of the great tumult; cling 
To the tossed wreck with terror in thy 
heart; 
Scale, with the assaulting host, the ram- 
part's height. 
And strike and struggle in the thickest 
fight. 

So shalt thou frame a lay 

That haply may endure from age to age. 
And they who read shall say : si 

"What witchery hangs upon this poet's 
page ! _ 
What art is his the written spells to find 
That sway from mood to mood the will- 
ing mind !" 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN i 

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare. 
Gentle and merciful and just! 

Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
The sword of power, a nation's trust! 

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
Amid the awe that hushes all. 

And speak the anguish of a land 
That shook with horror at thy fall. 

Thy task is done ; the bond are free : 
We bear thee to an honored grave, ^o 

Whose proudest monument shall be 
The broken fetters of the slave. 

Pure was thy life; its bloody close 
Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 

Among the noble host of those 

Who perished in the cause of Right. 



April, 1865. 



January, 1866. 



1863. 



"Thirty Poems," 1864. 



CHRISTMAS IN 1875 

Supposed to he written by a Spaniard 

No trumpet-blast profaned 
The hour in which the Prince of Peace 

was born ; 
No bloody streamlet stained 
Earth's silver rivers on that sacred morn ; 

But, o'er the peaceful plain, 
The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded 
wain. 

The soldier had laid by 
The sword and stripped the corselet from 
his breast. 
And hung his helm on high — 
The sparrow's winter home and summer 
nest; i" 

And, with the same strong hand 
That flung the barbed spear, he tilled the 
land. 

Oh, time for which we yearn; 
Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold! 

. Season of peace, return. 
Like a late summer when the year grows 
old, 
When the sweet sunny days 
Steeped mead and mountain-side in gold- 
en haze. 

1 This poem was written for the day of the 
funeral procession of Lincoln in New York City. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



193 



For now two rival kings 
Flaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hos- 
tile flags, 20 
And every sunrise brings 
The hovering vulture from his mountain 
crags 
To where the battle-plain 
Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower 
of Spain. 

Christ is not come, while yet 
O'er half the earth the threat of battle 
lowers, 
And our own fields are wet. 
Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson 
showers — 
The life-blood of the slain. 
Poured out where thousands die that one 
may reign. 3° 

Soon, over half the earth, 
In every temple crowds shall kneel again 

To celebrate His birth 
Who brought the message of good-will to 
men, 
And bursts of joyous song 
Shall shake the roof above the prostrate 
throng. 

Christ is not come, while there 
The men of blood whose crimes affront 
the skies 
Kneel down in act of prayer, 
Amid the joyous strains, and when they 
rise 40 

Go forth, with sword and flame. 
To waste the land in His most holy name. 

Oh, when the day shall break 
O'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel 
arts. 
And all their millions wake 
To peaceful tasks performed with loving 
hearts. 
On such a blessed morn, 
Well may the nations say that Christ is 

born. 
1875. 

New York Evening Post, Dec, 1875. 



A LIFETIME 

I sit in the early twilight. 

And, through the gathering shade, 
I look on the fields around me 

Where yet a child I played. 

And I peer into the shadows, 
Till they seem to pass away. 



And the fields and their tiny brooklet 
Lie clear in the light of day. 

A dehcate child and slender, 

With locks of light-brown hair, lo 

From knoll to knoll is leaping 

In the breezy summer air. 

He stoops to gather blossoms 
Where the running waters shine; 

And I look on him with wonder, 
His eyes are so like mine. 

I look till the fields and brooklet 

Swim like a vision by, 
And a room in a lowly dwelling 

Lies clear before my eye. 2° 

There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace, 
Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom, 

And the birch-tree's fragrant branches 
Perfume the humble room. 

And there the child is standing 

By a stately lady's knee. 
And reading of ancient peoples 

And realms beyond the sea : 

Of the cruel King of Egypt 

Who made God's people slaves, 3° 

And perished, with all his army. 

Drowned in the Red Sea waves ; 

Of Deborah who mustered 
Her brethren long oppressed, 

And routed the heathen army. 
And gave her people rest; 

And the sadder, gentler story 

How Christ, the crucified. 
With a prayer for those who slew Him, 

Forgave them as He died. 4° 

I look again, and there rises 

A forest wide and wild, 
And in it the boy is wandering, 

No longer a Httle child. 

He murmurs his own rude verses 
As he roams the woods alone; 

And again I gaze with wonder. 
His eyes are so like my own. 

I see him next in his chamber, 

Where he sits him down to write 5° 
The rhymes he framed in his ramble, 

And he cons them with delight. 



194 



AMERICAN POETRY 



60 



A kindly figure enters, 

A man of middle age, 
And points to a line just written, 

And 'tis blotted from the page. 

And next, in a hall of justice, 
Scarce grown to manly years, 

'Mid the hoary-headed wranglers 
The slender youth appears. 

With a beating heart he rises, 
And with a burning cheek, 

And the judges kindly listen 
To hear the young man speak. 

Another change, and I see him 
Approach his dwelling-place. 

Where a fair-haired woman meets him. 
With a smile on her young face — 

A smile that spreads a sunshine 
On lip and cheek and brow ; 

So sweet a smile there is not 
In all the wide earth now. 



She leads by the hand their first-born, 

A fair-haired little one, 
And their eyes as they meet him sparkle 

Like brooks in the morning sun. 

Another change, and I see him 
Where the city's ceaseless coil 

Sends up a mighty murmur 
From a thousand modes of toil. 8c 

And there, 'mid the clash of presses, 

He plies the rapid pen 
In the battles of opinion, 

That divide the sons of men. 

I look, and the clashing presses 
And the town are seen no more, 

But there is the poet wandering 
A strange and foreign shore. 



He has crossed the mighty ocean 
To realms that lie afar, 9° 

In the region of ancient story. 
Beneath the morning star. 

And now he stands in wonder 

On an icy Alpine height ; 
Now pitches his tent in the desert 

Where the jackal yells at night; 

Now, far on the North Sea islands. 

Sees day on the midnight sky, 
Now gathers the fair strange fruitage 90 

Where the isles of the Southland lie. 1876. 



I see him again at his dwelling, 

Where, over the little lake, 
The rose-trees droop in their beauty 

To meet the image they make. 

Though years have whitened his temples 
His eyes have the first look still, 

Save a shade of settled sadness, 
A forecast of coming ill. 

For in that pleasant dwelling. 

On the rack of ceaseless pain, I'o 

Lies he who smiled so sweetly. 

And prays for ease in vain. 

And I know that his heart is breaking, 

When, over those dear eyes. 
The darkness slowly gathers, 

And the loved and loving dies. 

A grave is scooped on the hillside 
Where often, at eve or morn, 

He lays the blooms of the garden — 
He, and his youngest born. 120 

And well I know that a brightness 
From his life has passed away. 

And a smile from the green earth's beauty. 
And a glory from the day. 

But I behold, above him. 

In the far blue deeps of air. 
Dim battlements shining faintly, 

And a throng of faces there; 

See over crystal barrier 

The airy figures bend, 130 

Like those who are watching and waiting 

The coming of a friend. 

And one there is among them. 

With a star upon her brow, 
In her life a lovely woman, 

A sinless seraph now. 

I know the sweet calm features; 

The peerless smile I know. 
And I stretch my arms with transport 

From where I stand below. 140 

And the quick tears drown my eyelids, 

But the airy figures fade, 
And the shining battlements darken 

And blend with the evening shade. 

I am gazing into the twilight 
Where the dim-seen meadows lie. 

And the wind of night is swaying 
The trees with a heavy sigh. 



"Poems," 1876. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

(1803-1882) 



FROM THE POET i 

I. 

Right upward on the road of fame 
With sounding steps the poet came; 
Born and nourished in miracles, 
His feet were shod with golden bells, 
Or where he stepped the soil did peal 
As if the dust were glass and steel. 
The gallant child where'er he came 
Threw to each fact a tuneful name. 
The things whereon he cast his eyes 
Could not the nations rebaptize, ^° 

Nor Time's snows hide the names he set. 
Nor last posterity forget. 
Yet every scroll whereon he wrote 
In latent fire his secret thought. 
Fell unregarded to the ground, 
Unseen by such as stood around. 
The pious wind took it away, 
The reverent darkness hid the lay. 
Methought like water-haunting birds 
Divers or dippers were his words, 20 

And idle clowns beside the mere 
At the new vision gape and jeer. 
But when the noisy scorn was past. 
Emerge the winged words in haste. 
New - bathed, new - trimmed, on healthy 

wing, 
Right to the heaven they steer and sing. 
A Brother of the world, his song 
Sounded like a tempest strong 
Which tore from oaks their branches 

broad. 
And stars from the ecliptic road. 3° 

Times wore he as his clothing-weeds. 
He sowed the sun and moon for seeds. 
As melts the iceberg in the seas. 
As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze, 
As snow-banks thaw in April's beam, 
The solid kingdoms like a dream 
Resist in vain his motive strain. 
They totter now and float amain. 
For the Muse gave special charge 
His learning should be deep and large, 40 

* This poem was begun as early as 1831, prob- 
ably earlier^ and received additions for more 
than twenty years, but was never completed. 
In its early form, it was entitled, "The Discon- 
tented Poet, A Masque," 



And his training should not scant 

The deepest lore of wealth or want : 

His flesh should feel, his eyes should read 

Every maxim of dreadful Need; 

In its fulness he should taste 

Life's honeycomb, but not too fast; 

Full fed, but not intoxicated ; 

He should be loved ; he should be hated 

A blooming child to children dear. 

His heart should palpitate with fear. so 

And well he loved to quit his home 
And, Calmuck, in his wagon roam 
To read new landscapes and old skies; — 
But oh, to see his solar eyes 
Like meteors which chose their way 
And rived the dark like a new day ! 
Not lazy grazing on all they saw, 
Each chimney-pot and cottage door. 
Farm-gear and village picket-fence. 
But, feeding on magnificence, 60 

They bounded to the horizon's edge 
Aiid searched with the sun's privilege. 
Landward they reached the mountains old 
Where pastoral tribes their flocks infold, 
Saw rivers run seaward by cities high 
And the seas wash the low-hung sky; 
Saw the endless rack of the firmament 
And the sailing moon where the cloud 

was rent, 
And through man and woman and sea and 

star 
Saw the dance of Nature forward and 

far, 70 

Through worlds and races and terms and 

times 
Saw musical order and pairing rhymes. 

GOOD-BYE 2 

Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home : 
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 
A river-ark on the ocean brine, 
Long I've been tossed like the driven 

foam ; 
But now, proud world ! I'm going home. 

2 Written while Emerson was a schoolmaster 
in Boston and lived in Roxbury. 



195 



196 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; 
To Grandeur with his wise grimace ; 
To upstart Wealth's averted eye; 
To supple Office, low and high ; lo 

To crowded halls, to court and street; 
To frozen hearts and hasting feet; 
To those who go, and those who come; 
Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home. 

I am going to my own hearth-stone, 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; 
Where arches green, the livelong day. 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay. ^ 

And vulgar feet have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 



O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; 
And when I am stretched beneath the 

pines. 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man. 
At the sophist schools and the learned 

clan; 
For what are they all, in their high con- 
ceit, 
When man in the bush with God may 
meet? 3° 



1S23. 



JJ'cstcni Messenger, April, 1839. 



THINE EYES STILL SHINED i 

Thine eyes still shined for me, though far 
I lonely roved the land or sea : 

As I behold yon evening star, 
Which j-et "beholds not me. 



This morn I climbed the misty hill 
And roamed the pastures through ; 

How danced thy form before my path 
Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! 

When the redbird spread his sable wing, 
And showed his side of flame : ^'■ 

When the rosebud ripened to the rose. 
In both I read thy name. 



1829 or 1830. 



"Poems," 1847. 



1 Emerson married Ellen Tucker in Septem- 
ber, 1829. She died in 1831. See also latter 
part of the "Lines Written in Naples." 



WRITTEN IN NAPLES 

We are what we are made ; each follow- 
ing day 
Is the Creator of our human mould 
Not less than was the first; the all-wise 

God 
Gilds a few points in every several life, 
And as each flower upon the fresh hillside, 
And every colored petal of each flower. 
Is sketched and dyed, each with a new 

design. 
Its spot of purple, and its streak of brown, 
So each man's life shall have its proper 

lights, 
And a few joys, a few peculiar charms, ^° 
For him round-in the melancholy hours 
And reconcile him to the common days. 
Not many men see beauty in the fogs 
Of close low pine-woods in a river town; 
Yet imto me not morn's magnificence. 
Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve. 
Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls 
Of rich men blazing hospitable light. 
Nor wit, nor eloquence, — no, nor even the 

song 
Of any woman that is now alive, — ^o 
Hath such a soul, such divine influence, 
Such resurrection of the happy past, 
As is to me when I behold the morn 
Ope in such low moist roadside, and be- 
neath 
Peep the blue violets out of the black loam, 
Pathetic silent poets that sing to me 
Thine elegy, sweet singer, sainted wife. 

1833. "Poems," 1884 



WRITTEN AT ROAIE 

Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely 

too; — 
Besides, you need not be alone; the soul 
Shall have society of its own rank. 
Be great, be true, and all the Scipios, 
The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome, 
Shall flock to you and tarry by your side. 
And comfort j^ou with their high com- 
pany. 
\"irtue alone is sweet society. 
It keeps the key to all heroic hearts. 
And opens you a welcome in them all. '° 
You must be like them if you desire them. 
Scorn trifles and embrace a better aim 
Than wine or sleep or praise; 
Hunt knowledge as the lover wooes a 

maid. 
And ever in the strife of your own 
thoughts 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



197 



Obey the nobler impulse; that is Rome: 
That shall command a senate to your side; 
For there is no might in the universe 
That can contend with love. It reigns 

forever. 
Wait then, sad friend, wait in majestic 

peace 20 

The hour of heaven. Generously trust 
Thy fortune's web to the beneficent hand 
That until now has put his world in fee 
To thee. He watches for thee still. His 

love 
Broods over thee, and as God lives in 

heaven, 
However long thou walkest solitary, 
The hour of heaven shall come, the man 

appear. 

1833. "Poems," 1884. 

WEBSTER 1 

111 fits the abstemious Muse a crown to 

weave 
For living brows; ill fits them to receive: 
And yet, if virtue abrogate the law. 
One portrait — fact or fancy — we may 

draw ; 
A form which Nature cast in the heroic 

mould 
Of them who rescued liberty of old; 
He, when the rising storm of party roared. 
Brought his great forehead to the council 

board, 
There, while hot heads perplexed with 

fears the state. 
Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate ; 
Seemed, when at last his clarion accents 

broke, " 

As if the conscience of the country spoke. 
Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood, 
Than he to common sense and common 

good : 
No mimic; from his breast his counsel 

drew. 
Believed the eloquent was aye the true ; 
He bridged the gulf from th' alway good 

and wise 
To that within the vision of small eyes. 
Self-centred ; when he launched the gen- 
uine word 
It shook or captivated all who heard, 20 
Ran from his mouth to mountains and 

the sea. 
And burned in noble hearts proverb and 

prophecy. 

1834. "Poems," 1884. 

^ From the Phi Beta Kappa poem of 1834. 
This is the only passage preserved. 



THE RHODORA: 

On being asked, Whence is the flower? 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our soli- 
tudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods. 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp 

nook. 
To please the desert and the sluggish 

brook. 
The purple petals, fallen in the pool. 
Made the black water with their beauty 

gay; 
Here might the redbird come his plumes 

to cool, 
And court the flower that cheapens his 

array. 
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the earth and 

sky, 10 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made 

for seeing. 
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being : 
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! 
I never thought to ask, I never knew : 
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 
The self-same Power that brought me 

there brought you. 

1834. Western Messenger, July, 1839. 



EACH AND ALL 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked 

clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; 
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine 

height; 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
All are needed by each one; " 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough; 
I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
He sings the song, but it cheers not now. 
For I did not bring home the river and 

sky ; — 
He sang to my ear, — they sang to my 

eye. 
The delicate shells lay on the shore; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 20 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. 



198 



AMERICAN rOETRY 



^ 



And tlie bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to nie. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam. 
I fetched my sea-born treasures home; 
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
Had left their beauty on the shore 
With the sun and the sand and the wild 

uproar. 
The lover watched his graceful maid. 
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, 30 
Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
At last she came to his hermitage, 
Like the bird from the woodlands to the 

cage ; — 
The gay enchantment was luulone. 
A gentle wife, but fairy none. 
Then I said. "I covet truth ; 
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; 
I leave it behind with the games of 

youth :" — 
As I spoke, beneath my feet 4"^ 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. 
Running over the club-moss burrs; 
I inhaled the violet's breath ; 
Aroimd me stood the oaks and firs ; 
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; 
Over me soared the eternal sky, 
Full of light and of deity ; 
Again I saw, again I heard. 
The rolling river, the morning bird ; — 
Beauty through my senses stole ; 5" 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 
1834. 

IJ'csfcni Messenger, Feb., 1S39. 



THE APOLOGY 

Think me not unkind and rude 

That I walk alone in grove and glen; 

I go to the god of the wood 
To fetch his word to men. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my anus beside the brook; 

Each cloud that floated in the sky 
Writes a letter in my book. 

Chide me not, laborious band. 

For the idle flowers I brought ; i 

Every aster in my hand 

Goes home loaded with a thought. 

There was never mystery 

But 't is figured in the flowers ; 

Was never secret history 

But birds tell it in the bowers. 



One harvest from thy field 

.Homeward brought the oxen strong; 
A second crop thine acres yield, 

Which I gather in a song.^ 



18.>5? 



"Poems." 1847. 



CONCORD HYMN 



Sung at the eonif'letioit of the Battle 
Monument, July 4, JS^T- 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze im furled. 

Here once tlie embattled farmers stood 
And t'lred the shot heard round the 

the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

.Mike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the mined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward 
creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream. 

We set to-day a votive stone ; '^ 

That memory tuay their deed redeetu. 

When, like our sires, our sons. arc gone. 

Spirit, that luade those heroes dare 
To die. and leave their children free. 

Bid Tiiue and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

\S37. \6mo sheet. Concord. 1837. 



THE HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly, dozing, humble-bee. 
\\"here thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-oft" heats through seas to seek; 
I will follow thee alone. 
Thou aniiuated torrid-zone ! 
Zigzag steerer. desert cheerer. 
Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
Keep lue nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun. 
Toy of thy dominion ! 
"Sailor of the atmosphere; 
Swimmer through the waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon ; 
Epicurean of Tune ; 
Wait. I prithee, till I come 
Witiiin earshot of thy hum, — 
All without is martyrdom. 
* Compare tlic Dirijc, page 207, 



KALI'H WALDO KxMERSON 



199 



Whf.n the south wind, in May days, 20 

With a net of shininj^ haze 

Silvers the horizon wall, 

And with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 

With a color of romance, 

And infusing subtle heats. 

Turns the sod to violets, 

Thou, in sunny solitudes, 

Kovcr of the underwoods. 

The green silence dost displace 3'' 

With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's pitted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
()f gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 4^ 

Hath my insect never seen ; 

liut violets and bilberry bells, 

Maple-sap and daffodels, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high. 

Succory to match the sky, 

Columbine with horn of honey. 

Scented fern, and agrimony. 

Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue 

And brier- roses, dwelt among; 

All beside was unknown waste, 5" 

All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 
Seeing only what is fair, 
Sipping only what is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
When the fierce northvv'cstern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast. 
Thou already slumberest deep; "^^ 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

1837. West'^rn Messenger, Feb., 1839 

THE PROBLEM 1 

I like a church; T like a cowl; 

I love a prophet of the soul;_ 

And on my heart monastic aisles 

I'all like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; 

' Many of the thoughts and some of the 
phrasing of this poftm can be found in the essay 
on Art. This double treatment of ideas and 
double use of phrases is of frequent occurrence 
in Emerson's writings. 



Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought; '^ 
Never from lips of cunning fell 
The thrilling Delphic oracle; 
Out from the heart of nature rolled 
The burdens of the Bible old; 
The litanies of nations came, 
Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 
Up from the burning core below, — 
The canticles of love and woe : 
The hand that rounded Peter's dome 
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 
Wrought in a sad sincerity : 21 

Himself from God he could not free; 
He builded better than he knew; — 
The conscious stone to beauty grew. 
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's 

nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
Painting with morn her annual cell? 
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads? 3^ 

Such and so grev/ these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
As the best gem upon her zone. 
And Morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 
As on its friends, v/ith kindred eye; 
For out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air; 40 

And Nature gladly gave them place. 
Adopted them into her race, 
And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 
These temples grew as grows the grass; 
Art might obey, but not surpass. 
The passive Master lent his hand 
To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; 
And the same power that reared the shrine 
liestrode the tribes that knelt within. s-^ 
Ever the fiery Pentecost 
Girds with one flame the countless host, 
Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires. 
The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken; 
The word by seers or sibyls told. 
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold. 
Still floats upon the morning wind. 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 60 



200 



AMERICAN POETRY 



One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the fathers wise, 
The Book itself before me lies, 
Old Chrysostoni, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line, 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
His words are music in my ear, 
I see his cowled portrait dear; 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be. 



1839. 



The Dial July, 1840. 



WOODNOTES 

I 

1 
When the pine tosses its cones 
To the song of its waterfall tones. 
Who speeds to the woodland walks? 
To birds and trees who talks? 
Caesar of his leafy Rome, 
There the poet is at home. 
He goes to the river-side, — 
Not hook nor line hath he ; 
He stands in the meadows wide, — 
Nor gun nor scythe to see. ^° 

Sure some god his eye enchants : 
What he knows nobody wants. 
In the wood he travels glad, 
Without better fortune had. 
Melancholy without bad. 
Knowledge this man prizes best 
Seems fantastic to the rest : 
Pondering shadows, colors, clouds, 
Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds, 
Boughs on which the wild bees settle, -° 
Tints that spot the violet's petal. 
Why Nature loves the number five, 
And why the star-form she repeats: 
Lover of all things alive, 
Wonderer at all he meets, 
Wonderer chiefly at himself. 
Who can tell him what he is? 
Or how meet in human elf 
Coming and past eternities? 



And such I knew, a forest seer,^ 3° 

A minstrel of the natural year. 
Foreteller of the vernal ides. 
Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, 

1 The section on the forest-seer is a close 
characterization of Thoreau and very like Em- 
erson's prose tribute written after Thoreau's 
death in 1862. 



1 



A lover true, who knew by heart 
Each joy the mountain dales impart; 
It seemed that Nature could not raise 
A plant in any secret place. 
In quaking bog, on snowy hill, 
Beneath the grass that shades the rill. 
Under the snow, between the rocks, 4° 
In damp fields known to bird and fox. 
But he would come in the very hour 
It opened in its virgin bower. 
As if a sunbeam showed the place, 
And tell its long-descended race. 
It seemed as if the breezes brought him, 
It seemed as if the sparrows taught him; 
As if by secret sight he knew 
Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. 
Many haps fall in the field 5° 

Seldom seen by wishful eyes. 
But all her shows did Nature yield, 
To please and win this pilgrim wise. 
He saw the partridge drum in the woods ; 
He heard the woodcock's evening hymn; 
He found the tawny thrushes' broods ; 
And the shy hawk did wait for him ; 
What others did at distance hear, 
And guessed within the thicket's gloom, 
Was shown to this philosopher, 6° 

And at his bidding seemed to come. 



In unploughed Maine he sought the lum- 
berers' gang 
Where from a hundred lakes young rivers 

sprang ; 
He trode the unplanted forest floor, 

whereon 
The all-seeing sun for ages hath not 

shone; 
Where feeds the moose, and walks the 

surly bear. 
And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. 
He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous 

beds. 
The slight Linnsea hang its twin-born 

heads. 
And blessed the monument of the man of 

flowers, 70 

Which breathes his sweet fame through 

the northern bowers. 
He heard, when in the grove, at intervals. 
With sudden roar the aged pine-tree 

falls,— 
One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect 

tree. 
Declares the close of its green century. 
Low lies the plant to whose creation went 
Sweet influence from every element; 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



201 



Whose living towers the years conspired 

to build, 
Whose giddy top the morning loved to 

gild. 
Through these green tents, by eldest 

Nature dressed, . 80 

He roamed, content alike with man and 

beast. 
Where darkness found him he lay glad at 

night; 
There the red morning touched him with 

its light. 
Three moons his great heart him a hermit 

made, 
So long he roved at will the boundless 

shade. 
The timid it concerns to ask their way, 
And fear what foe in caves and swamps 

can stray. 
To make no step until the event is known. 
And ills to come as evils past bemoan. 
Not so the wise; no coward watch he 

keeps 90 

To spy what danger on his pathway 

creeps ; 
Go where he will, the wise man is at 

home. 
His hearth the earth, — ^his hall the azure 

dome; 
Where his clear spirit leads him, there's 

his road 
By God's own light illumined and fore- 
showed. 

4 
'Twas one of the charmed days 
When the genius of God doth flow; 
The wind may alter twenty ways, 
A tempest cannot blow ; 
It may blow north, it still is warm; 100 
Or south, it still is clear; 
Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; 
Or west, no thunder fear. 
The musing peasant, lowly great, 
Beside the forest water sate; 
The rope-like pine-roots crosswise grown 
Composed the network of his throne; 
The wide lake, edged with sand and grass. 
Was burnished to a floor of glass, 
Painted with shadows green and proud "o 
Of the tree and of the cloud. 
He was the heart of all the scene ; 
On him the sun looked more serene; 
To hill and cloud his face was known, — 
The public child of earth and sky. 
"You ask," he said, "what guide 
Me through trackless thickets led. 
Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough 

and wide. 120 

I found the water's bed. 



The watercourses were my guide; 

I travelled grateful by their side, 

Or through their channel dry; 

They led me through the thicket damp. 

Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp, 

Through beds of granite cut my road. 

And their resistless friendship showed. 

The falling waters led me. 

The foodful waters fed me, 130 

And brought me to the lowest land. 

Unerring to the ocean sand. 

The moss upon the forest bark 

Was pole-star when the night was dark ; 

The purple berries in the wood 

Supplied me necessary food; 

For Nature ever faithful is 

To such as trust her faithfulness. 

When the forest shall mislead me, 

When the night and morning lie, 140 

When sea and land refuse to feed me, 

'Twill be time enough to die; 

Then will yet my mother yield 

A pillow in her greenest field. 

Nor the June flowers scorn to cover 

The clay of their departed lover." 

The Dial, Oct., 1840. 



WOODNOTES 

II 

As sunbeams stream through liberal space 

And nothing jostle or displace, 

So waved the pine - tree through my 

thought 
And fanned the dreams it never brought. 

"Whether is better, the gift or the donor? 

Come to me," 

Quoth the pine-tree, 

"I am the giver of honor. 

My garden is the cloven rock. 

And my manure the snow ; 1° 

And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock. 

In summer's scorching glow. 

He is great who can live by me : 

The rough and bearded forester 

Is better than the lord ; 

God fills the scrip and canister, 

Sin piles the loaded board. 

The lord is the peasant that was, 

The peasant the lord that shall be; 

The lord is hay, the peasant grass, 20 

One dry, and one the living tree. 

Who liveth by the ragged pine 

Foundeth a heroic line; 

Who liveth in the palace hall 

Waneth fast and spendeth all. 



202 



AMERICAN POETRY 



He goes to my savage haunts, 
With his chariot and his care; 
My twilight realm he disenchants, 
And finds his prison there. 

What prizes the town and the tower ? 3° 
Only what the pine-tree yields; 
Sinew that subdued the fields ; 
The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods 
Chants his hymn to hills and floods, 
Whom the city's poisoning spleen 
Made not pale, or fat, or lean; 
Whom the rain and the wind purgeth. 
Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth. 
In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth. 
In whose feet the lion rusheth 40 

Iron arms, and iron mould. 
That know not fear, fatigue, or cold. 
I give my rafters to his boat. 
My billets to his boiler's throat, 
And I will swirfi the ancient sea 
To float my child to victory. 
And grant to dwellers with the pine 
Dominion o'er the palm and vine. 
Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend. 
Unnerves his strength, invites his end. 5° 
Cut a bough from my parent stem, 
And dip it in thy porcelain vase; 
A little while each russet gem 
Will swell and rise with wonted grace; 
But when it seeks enlarged supplies, 
The orphan of the forest dies. 
Whoso walks in solitude 
And inhabiteth the wood, 
Choosing light, wave, rock and bird. 
Before the money-loving herd, 60 

Into that forester shall pass. 
From these companions, power and grace. 
Clean shall he be, without, within. 
From the old adhering sin. 
All ill dissolving in the light 
Of his triumphant piercing sight: 
Not vain, sour, nor frivolous; 
Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous ; 
Grave, chaste, contented, though retired. 
And of all other men desired. 7° 

On him the light of star and moon 
Shall fall with purer radiance down; 
All constellations of the sky 
Shed their virtue through his eye. 
Him Nature giveth for defence 
His formidable innocence; 
The mountain sap, the shells, the sea. 
All spheres, all stones, his helpers be; 
He shall meet the speeding year, 
Without wailing, without f6ar; 80 

He shall be happy in his love, 
Like to like shall joyful prove; 



He shall be happy whilst he wooes. 
Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse. 
But if with gold she bind her hair, 
And deck her breast with diamond. 
Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear. 
Though thou lie alone on the ground. 

"Heed the old oracles, 

Ponder my spells; 9o 

Song wakes in my pinnacles 

When the wind swells. 

Soundeth the prophetic wind, , 

The shadows shake on the rock behind, 

And the countless leaves of the pine are 

strings 
Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. 

Hearken ! Hearken ! 
If thou wouldst know the mystic song 
Chanted when the sphere was young. 
Aloft, abroad, the paean swells; 1°° 

O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells? 
O wise man! hear'st thou the least part? 
'Tis the chronicle of art. 
To the open ear it sings 
Sweet the genesis of things, 
Of tendency through endless ages. 
Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages. 
Of rounded worlds, of space and time, 
Of the old flood's subsiding slime. 
Of chemic matter, force and form, "o 
Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm : 
The rushing metamorphosis 
Dissolving all that fixture is. 
Melts things that be to things that seem. 
And solid nature to a dream. 
O, listen to the undersong. 
The ever old, the ever young; 
And, far within those cadent pauses. 
The chorus of the ancient Causes ! 
Delights the dreadful Destiny 12° 

To fling his voice into the tree. 
And shock thy weak ear with a note 
Breathed from the everlasting throat. 
In music he repeats the pang 
Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang. 
O mortal ! thy ears are stones ; 
These echoes are laden with tones 
Which only the pure can hear; 
Thou canst not catch what they recite 
Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, 130 
Of man to come, of human life. 
Of Death and Fortune, Growth and 
Strife." 

Once again the pine-tree sung : — 
"Speak not thy speech my boughs among : 
Put off thy years, wash in the breeze; 
My hours are peaceful centuries. 
Talk no more with feeble tongue; 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



203 



No more the fool of space and time, 

Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme. 

Only thy Americans 140 

Can read thy line, can meet thy glance, 

But the runes that I rehearse 

Understands the universe; 

The least breath my boughs which tossed 

Brings again the Pentecost; 

To every soul resounding clear 

In a voice of solemn cheer, — 

'Am I not thine? Are not these thine?' 

And they reply, 'Forever mine !' 

My branches speak Italian, iSo 

English, German, Basque, Castilian, 

Mountain speech to Highlanders, 

Ocean tongues to islanders, 

To Fin and Lap and swart Malay, 

To each his bosom-secret say. 

"Come learn with me the fatal song 
Which knits the world in music strong. 
Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes. 
Of things with things, of times with times. 
Primal chimes of sun and shade, 160 

Of sound and echo, man and maid. 
The land reflected in the flood. 
Body with shadow still pursued. 
For Nature beats in perfect tune, 
And rounds with rhyme her every rune, 
Whether she work in land or sea. 
Or hide underground her alchemy. 
Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, 
Or dip thy paddle in the lake. 
But it carves the bow of beauty there, ^7° 
And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. 
The wood is wiser far than thou; 
The wood and wave each other know 
Not unrelated, unaffied. 
But to each thought and thing allied, 
Is perfect Nature's every part, 
Rooted in the mighty Heart. 
But thou, poor child ! unbound, unrhymed. 
Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed, 
Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded? 
Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded? 
Who thee divorced, deceived and left? 182 
Thee of thy faith who hath bereft. 
And torn the ensigns from thy brow. 
And sunk the immortal eye so low? 
Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender, 
Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender 
For royal man ; — they thee confess 
An exile from the wilderness, — 
The hills \yhere health with health agrees, 
And the wise soul expels disease. 191 

Hark ! in thy ear I will tell the sign 
By which thy hurt thou may'st divine. _ 
When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff, 
Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, 



To thee the horizon shall express 

But emptiness on emptiness ; 

There lives no man of Nature's worth 

In the circle of the earth; 

And to thine eye the vast skies fall, 200 

Dire and satirical. 

On clucking hens and prating fools, 

On thieves, on drudges and on dolls. 

And thou shalt say to the Most High, 

'Godhead ! all this astronomy. 

And fate and practice and invention, 

Strong art and beautiful pretension, 

This radiant pomp of sun and star. 

Throes that were, and worlds that are. 

Behold! were in vain and in vain; — 210 

It cannot be, — I will look again. 

Surely now will the curtain rise. 

And earth's fit tenant me surprise; — 

But the curtain doth not rise, 

And Nature has miscarried wholly 

Into failure, into folly.' 

"Alas ! thine is the bankruptcy, 

Blessed Nature so to see. 

Come, lay thee in my soothing shade. 

And heal the hurts which sin has made. 

I see thee in the crowd alone; 221 

I will be thy companion. 

Quit thy friends as the dead in doom. 

And build to them a final tomb; 

Let the starred shade that nightly falls 

Still celebrate their funerals. 

And the bell of beetle and of bee 

Knell their melodious memory. 

Behind thee leave thy merchandise, 

Thy churches and thy charities ; ^2° 

And leave thy peacock wit behind; 

Enough for thee the primal mind 

That flows in streams, that breathes in 

wind : 
Leave all thy pedant lore apart; 
God hid the whole world in thy heart. 
Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns. 
Give all to them who all renounce. 
The rain comes when the wind calls; 
The river knows the way to the sea; 
Without a pilot it runs and falls, 240 

Blessing all lands with its charity; 
The sea tosses and foams to find 
Its way up to the cloud and wind; 
The shadow sits close to the flying ball ; 
The date fails not on the palm-tree tall; 
And thou, — go burn thy wormy pages, — 
Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages. 
Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain 
To find what bird had piped the strain : — 
Seek not, and the little eremite 250 

Flies gayly forth and sings in sight. 



204 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"Hearken once more ! 

I will tell thee the mundane lore. 

Older am I than thy numbers wot, 

Change I may, but I pass not. 

Hitherto all things fast abide, 

And anchored in the tempest ride. 

Trenchant time behoves to hurry 

All to yean and all to bury : 

All the forms are fugitive, ^^ 

But the substances survive. 

Ever fresh the broad creation, 

A divine improvisation, 

From the heart of God proceeds, 

A single y/ill, a million deeds. 

Once slept the world an egg of stone, 

And pulse, and sound, and light was none; 

And God said, 'Throb !' and there was 

motion 
And the vast mass became vast ocean. 
Onward and on, the eternal Pan, 270 

Who layeth the world's incessant plan, 
Halteth never in one shape, 
But forever doth escape. 
Like wave or flame, into new forms 
Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms. 
I, that to-day am a pine. 
Yesterday was a bundle of grass. 
He is free and libertine, 
Pouring of his power the wine 
To every age, to every race; 280 

Unto every race and age 
He emptieth the beverage; 
Unto each, and unto all, 
Maker and original. 
The world is the ring of his spells, 
And the play of his miracles. 
As he giveth to all to drink, _ 
Thus or thus they are and think. 
With one drop sheds form and feature ; 
With the next a special nature; 290 

The third adds heat's indulgent spark; 
The fourth gives light which eats the 

dark; 
Into the fifth himself he flings. 
And conscious Law is King of kings. 
As the bee through the garden ranges. 
From world to world the godhead 

changes ; 
^ As the sheep go feeding in the waste, 
From form to form He maketh haste; 
This vault which glows immense with 

light 299 

Is the inn where he lodges for a night. 
What recks such Traveller if the bowers 
Which bloom and fade like meadow 

flowers 
A. bunch of fragrant lilies be, 
Or the stars of eternity? 



Alike to him the better, the worse,— 

The glowing angel, the outcast corse. 

Thou metest him by centuries. 

And lo ! he passes like the breeze; 

Thouseek'st in globe and galaxy, 

He hides in pure transparency; 310 

Thou askest in fountains and in fires. 

He is the essence that inquires. 

He is the axis of the star; 

He is the sparkle of the spar; 

He is the heart of every creature; 

He is the meaning of each feature; 

And his mind is the sky. 

Than all it holds more deep, more high." 

The Dial, Oct., 184L 

THE SNOW-STORM 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the 

fields. 
Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 

heaven. 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's 

end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the cou- 
rier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the house- 
mates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry, i" 
Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer _ 
Curves his white bastions with projected 

roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or 

door. 
Speeding, the myriad - handed, his wild 

work 
So fanciful, so savage, naught care he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian 

wreaths ; 
A swan - like form invests the hidden 

thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to 

wall, 20 

Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the 

gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and 

the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not. 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished 

Art 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



205 



To mimic in slow structures, stone by 
stdne, 

Built in an age, the mad wind's night- 
work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 

Thl Dial, Jan., 1841. 

HOLIDAYS 

From fall to spring, the russet acorn. 
Fruit beloved of maid and boy, 

Lent itself beneath the forest, 
To be the children's toy. 

Pluck it now ! In vain, — thou canst not ; 

Its root has pierced yon shady mound; 
Toy no longer — it has duties; 

It is anchored in the ground. 

Year by year the rose-lipped maiden. 
Playfellow of young and old, lo 

Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men. 
More dear to one than mines of gold. 

Whither went the lovely hoyden? 

Disappeared in blessed wife; 
Servant to a wooden cradle. 

Living in a baby's life. 

Still thou playest; — short vacation 
Fate grants each to stand aside ; 

Now must thou be man and artist, — 
'Tis the turning of the tide. 20 

The Dial, July, 1842. 

ART 

Give to barrows, trays and pans 

Grace and glimmer of romance; 

Bring the moonlight into noon 

Hid in gleaming piles of stone; 

On the city's paved street 

Plant gardens lined with lilacs sweet; 

Let spouting fountains cool the air, 

Singing in the sun-baked square; 

Let statue, picture, park and hall. 

Ballad, flag and festival, 10 

The past restore, the day adorn. 

And make to-morrow a new morn. 

So shall the drudge in dusty frock 

Spy behind the city clock 

Retinues of airy kings, 

Skirts of angels, starry wings, 

His fathers shining in bright fables, 

His children fed at heavenly tables. 

'Tis the privilege of Art 

ThuG to play its cheerful part, 20 



Man on earth to acclimate 
And bend the exile to his fate, 
And, moulded of one element 
With the days and firmament, 
Teach him on these as stairs to climb. 
And live on even terms with Time; 
Whilst upper life the slender rill 
Of human sense doth overfill. 

"Essays," first series, 1841. 



COMPENSATION 

The wings of Time are black and white, 
Pied with morning and with night. 
Mountain tall and ocean deep 
Trembling balance duly keep. 
In changing moon and tidal wave 
Glows the feud of Want and Have. 
Gauge of more and less through space, 
Electric star or pencil plays, 
The lonely Earth amid the balls 
That hurry through the eternal halls, ^° 
A makeweight flying to the void. 
Supplemental asteroid, 
Or compensatory spark. 
Shoots across the neutral Dark. 

Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine ; 
Stanch and strong the tendrils twine : 
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive. 
None from its stock that vine can reave. 
Fear not, then, thou child infirm. 
There's no god dare wrong a worm; 20 
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts, 
And power to him who power exerts. 
Hast not thy share? On winged feet, 
Lo ! it rushes thee to meet ; 
And all that Nature made thy own. 
Floating in air or pent in stone, 
Will rive the hills and swim the sea. 
And, like thy shadow, follow thee. 



"Essays," first series, 1841. 



FRIENDSHIP 

A ruddy drop of manly blood 

The surging sea outweighs, 

The world uncertain comes and goesj 

The lover rooted stays. 

I fancied he was fled, — 

And, after many a year. 

Glowed unexhausted kindliness, 

Like daily sunrise there. 

My careful heart was free again, 

O friend, my bosom said. 



206 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Through thee alone the sky is arched. 

Through thee the rose is red ; 

All things through thee take nobler form, 

And look beyond the earth. 

The mill-round of our fate appears 

A sun-path in thy worth. 

Me too thy nobleness has taught 

To master my despair ; 

The fountains of my hidden life 

Are through thy friendship fair. ^ 

"Essays," first series, 1841. 



FORBEARANCE 

Hast thou named all the birds without a 

gun ? 
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its 

stalk? 
At rich men's tables eaten bread and 

pulse? 
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of 

trust? 
And loved so well a high behavior. 
In man or maid, that thou from Speech 

refrained, 
Nobility more nobly to repay? 
O, be my friend, and teach me to be 

thine ! 

The Dial, Jan., 1842. 



BLIGHT 

Give me truths; 

For I am weary of the surfaces, 

And die of inanition. If I knew 

Only the herbs and simples of the wood 

Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and agri- 
mony. 

Blue-vetch, and trillium, hawkweed, sas- 
safras. 

Milkweeds and murky brakes, quaint 
pipes and sundue, 

And rare and virtuous roots, which in 
these woods 

Draw imtold juices from the common 
earth, 

L^ntold, unknown, and I could surely 
spell _ 10 

Their fragrance, and their chemistry 

By sweet affinities to human flesh. 
Driving the foe and stablishing the 

friend, — 
O, that were much, and I could be a part 
Of the round day, related to the sun 



And planted world, and full executor 

Of their imperfect functions. 

But these young scholars, who invade 

our hills. 
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood. 
And travelling often in the cut he makes. 
Love not the flower they pluck, and know 

it not. 21 

And all their botany is Latin names. 
The old men studied magic in the flow- 
ers, 
And human fortunes in astronomy, 
And an omnipotence in chemistry, 
Preferring things to names, for these 

were men, 
Were unitarians of the united world, 
And, wheresoever their clear eye-beams 

fell. 
They caught the footsteps of the Same. 

Our eyes 
A.re armed, but we are strangers to the 

stars, 3° 

And strangers to the mystic beast and 

bird, 
And strangers to the plant and to the 

mine. 
The injured elements say, "Not in us" ; 
And haughtily return us stare for stare. 
For we invade them impiously for gain ; 
We devastate them unreligiously. 
And coldly ask their pottage, not their 

love. 
Therefore they shove us from them, yield 

to us 
Only what to our griping toil is due; 39 
But the sweet affluence of love and song, 
The rich results of the divine consents 
Of man and earth, of world beloved and 

lover, 
The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld; 
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we 

thieves 
And pirates of the universe, shut out 
Daily to a more thin and outward rind, 
Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our 

sick eyes. 
The stunted trees look sick, the summer 

short. 
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan 

our hay, 
And nothing thrives to reach its natural 

term ; so 

And Hfe, shorn of its venerable length, 
Even at its greatest space is a defeat, 
And dies in anger that it was a dupe ; 
And, in its highest noon and wantonness, 
Is early frugal, like a beggar's child; 
Even the hot pursuit of the best aims 
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand, 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



207 



Like Alpine cataracts frozen as they 

leaped, 
Chilled with a miserly comparison 
Of the toy's purchase with the length of 

life. 60 



1843. 



The Dial, Jan, 1844. 



CHARACTER i 

The sun set, but set not his hope: 
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up: 
P^ixed on the enormous galaxy. 
Deeper and older seemed his eye; 
And matched his sufferance sublime 
The taciturnity of time. 
He spoke, and words more soft than rain 
Jjrought the Age of Gold again : 
His action won such reverence sweet 
As hid all measures of the feat. 'o 

"Essays," second series, 1844. 



POLITICS 

Gold and Iron are good 

To buy iron and gold ; 

All earth's fleece and food 

For their like are sold. 

Boded Merlin wise, 

Proved Napoleon great, 

Nor kind nor coinage buys 

Aught above its rate. 

Fear, Craft and Avarice 

Cannot rear a State. 1° 

Out of dust to build 

What is more than dust, — 

Walls Amphion piled 

Phcebus stablish must. 

When the Muses nine 

With the Virtues meet, 

Find to their design 

An Atlantic seat, 

By green orchard boughs 

Fended from the heat, 20 

Where the statesman ploughs 

Furrow for the wheat, — 

When the Church is social worth. 

When the state-house is the hearth, 

Then the perfect State is come, 

The republican at home. 

"Essays," second series, 1844. 

* A part of this motto was taken from "The 
Poet," an early poem never jjublished by Emer- 
son. 



DIRGE 2 

Concord, 1838 

I reached the middle of the mount 
Up which the incarnate soul must climb. 

And paused for them, and looked around, 
With me who walked through space and 
time. 

Five rosy boys with morning light 
Had leaped from one fair mother's 
arms. 
Fronted the sun with hope as bright, 
And greeted God with childhood's 
psalms. 



Knows he who tills this lonely field 
To reap its scanty corn, 10 

What mystic fruit his acres yield 
At midnight and at morn? 

In the long sunny afternoon 
The plain was full of ghosts; 

I wandered up, I wandered down. 
Beset by pensive hosts. 

The winding Concord gleamed below, 

Pouring as wide a flood 
As when my brothers, long ago, 

Came with me to the wood. 20 

But they are gone, — the holy ones 

Who trod with me this lovely vale; 

The strong, star-bright companions 
Are silent, low and pale. 

My good, my noble, in their prime. 

Who made this world the feast it was, 

Who learned with me the lore of time, 
Who loved this dwelling-place! 

They took this valley for their toy. 
They played with it in every mood ; 30 

A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, — 
They treated nature as they would. 

They colored the horizon round; 

Stars flamed and faded as they bade, 
All echoes hearkened for their sound. — - 

They made the woodlands glad or mad. 

I touch this flower of silken leaf, 
Which once our childhood knew ; 

Its soft leaves wound me with a grief 
Whose balsam never grew. 4° 

2 Emerson was one of five sons. The death 
of his youngest brother, Charles, in 1836, left 
him the sole survivor. 



208 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Hearken to yon pine-warbler 

Singing aloft in the tree! 
Hearest thou, O traveller, 

What he singeth to me? 

Not unless God made sharp thine ear 
With sorrow such as mine, 

Out of that delicate lay could'st thou 
Its heavy tale divine. 



THRENODY I 

The South-wind brings 

Life, sunshine and desire, 

And on every mount and meadow 

Breathes aromatic fire ; 

But over the dead he has no power, 

The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; 

And, looking over the hills, I mourn 

The darling who shall not return. 



"Go, lonely man," it saith; 

"They loved thee from their birth ; 5° 
Their hands were pure, and pure their 
faith,— 

There are no such hearts on earth. 

"Ye drew one mother's milk, 

One chamber held ye all; 
A very tender history 

Did in your childhood fall. 



"You cannot unlock your heart. 
The key is gone with them ; 

The silent organ loudest chants 
The master's requiem." 



60 
1838. 



The Gift: A Christmas, New Year and 
Birthday Present, Philadelphia, 1845. 



FABLE 

The mountain and the squirrel 

Had a quarrel, 

And the former called the latter "Little 

Prig'l ; 
Bun replied, 

"You are doubtless very big; 
But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together, 
To make up a year 
And a sphere. 

And I think it no disgrace i" 

To occupy my place. 
If I'm not so large as you, 
You are not so small as I, 
And not half so spry. 
I'll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track ; 
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; 
If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
Neither can you crack a nut." 

The Diadem for 1846: A Present for all 
Seasons, Philadelphia, 184d 



I see my empty house, 

I see my trees repair their boughs; ^o 

And he, the wondrous child. 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

Within the air's cerulean round, — 

The hyacinthine boy, for whom 

Morn well might break and xA-pril bloom, 

The gracious boy, who did adorn 

The world whereinto he was born, 

And by his countenance repay 

The favor of the loving Day, — 20 

Has disappeared from the Day's eye; 

Far and wide she cannot find him ; 

My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 

Returned this day, the South - wind 

searches. 
And finds young pines and budding 

birches ; 
But finds not the budding man; 
Nature, who lost, cannot remake him ; 
Fate let him fall. Fate can't retake him; 
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. 

And whither now, my truant wise and 
sweet 30 

O, whither tend thy feet? 
I had the right, few days ago, 
Thy steps to watch, thy place to know : 
How have I forfeited the right? 
Hast thou forgot me in a new delight? 
I hearken for thy household cheer, 
O eloquent child ! 

Whose voice, an equal messenger, 
Conveyed thy meaning mild. 
What though the pains and joys 4° 

Whereof it spoke were toys 
Fitting his age and ken. 
Yet fairest dames and bearded men. 
Who heard the sweet request. 
So gentle, wise and grave. 
Bended with joy to his behest 
And let the world's affairs go by, 
A while to share his cordial game. 
Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, 

^ Emerson's first son, Waldo, was born in 
October, 1836, and died in January, 1842. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



209 



Still plotting how their hungry ear 5° 

That winsome voice again might hear; 
For his lips could well pronounce 
Words that were persuasions. 
Gentlest guardians marked serene 
His early hope, his liberal mien ; 
Took counsel from his guiding eyes 
To make this wisdcn earthly wise. 
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
The school-march, each day's festival, 
When every morn my bosom glowed 60 
To watch the convoy on the road ; 
The babe in willow wagon closed, 
With rolling eyes and face composed; 
With children forward and behind, 
Like Cupids studiously inclined; 
And he the chieftain paced beside, 
The centre of the troop allied. 
With sunny face of sweet repose. 
To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
The little captain innocent 7° 

Took the eye with him as he went; 
Each village senior paused to scan 
And speak the lovely caravan. 
From the window I look out 
To mark thy beautiful parade. 
Stately marching in cap and coat 
To some tune by fairies played; — 
A music heard by thee alone 
To works as noble led thee on. 

Now Love and Pride,* alas ! in vain, 80 
Up and down their glances strain. • 
The painted sled stands where it stood; 
The kennel by the corded wood ; 
His gathered sticks to stanch the wall 
Of the snow-tower, when snow should 

fall ; 
The ominous hole he dug in the sand. 
And childhood's castles built or planned; 
His daily haunts I well discern, — 
The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn, — 
And every inch of garden ground 9° 

Paced by the blessed feet around, 
From the roadside to the brook 
Whereinto he loved to look. 
Step the meek fowls where erst they 

ranged ; 
The wintry garden lies unchanged; 
The brook into the stream runs on; 
But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 

On that shaded day. 

Dark with more clouds than tempests are. 

When thou didst yield thy innocent 

breath ''°° 

In birdlike heavings unto death, 
Night came, and Nature had not thee; 
I said, "We are mates in misery." 



The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 
Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must 

crow; 
Each tramper started ; but the feet 
Of the most beautiful and sweet 
Of human youth had left the hill 
And garden, — they were bound and still. 
There's not a sparrow or a wren, "» 

There's not a blade of autumn grain, 
Which the four seasons do not tend 
And tides of life and increase lend; 
And every chick of every bird, 
And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 
O ostrichlike forgetfulness ! 
O loss of larger in the less ! 
Was there no star that could be sent, 
No watcher in the firmament. 
No angel from the countless host i^o 

That loiters round the crystal coast, 
Could stoop to heal that only child, 
Nature's sweet marvel undefiled, 
And keep the blossom of the earth, 
Which all her harvests were not worth? 
Not mine, — I never called thee mine. 
But Nature's heir, — if I repine. 
And seeing rashly. torn and moved 
Not what I made, but what I loved. 
Grow early old with grief that thou 130 
Must to the wastes of Nature go, — 
'Tis because a general hope 
Was quenched, and all must doubt and 

grope. 
For flattering planets seemed to say 
This child should ills of ages stay. 
By wondrous tongue, and guided pen. 
Bring the flown Muses back tu men. 
Perchance not he but Nature ailed, 
The world and not the infant failed. 
It was not ripe yet to sustain 140 

A genius of so fine a strain. 
Who gazed upon the sun and moon 
As if he came unto his own, 
And, pregnant with his grander thought, 
Brought the old order into doubt. 
His beauty once their beauty tried; 
They could not feed him, and he died, 
And wandered backward as in scorn, 
To wait an seon to be born. 
Ill day which made this beauty waste, ^so 
Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 
Some went and came about the dead; 
And some in books of solace read; 
Some to their friends the tidings say; 
Some went to write, some went to pray; 
One tarried here, there hurried one; 
But their heart abode with none. 
Covetous death bereaved us all, 
To aggrandize one funeral. 



210 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The eager fate which carried thee ^^ 

Took the largest part of me: 

For this losing is true dying; 

This is lordly man's down-lying, 

This his slow but sure reclining, 

Star by star his world resigning. 

child of paradise, 

Boy who made dear his father's home, 

In whose deep eyes 

Men read the welfare of the times to come, 

1 am too much bereft. 17° 
The world dishonored thou has left. 

O truth's and nature's costly lie ! 
O trusted broken prophecy! 

richest fortune sourly crossed ! 
Born for the future, to the future lost ! 

The deep Heart answered, "Weepest thou? 
Worthier cause for passion wild 
If I had not taken the child. 
And deemest thou as those who pore, 
With aged eyes, short way before, — 180 
Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast 
Of matter, and thy darling lost? 
Taught he not thee — the man of eld. 
Whose eyes within his eyes beheld 
Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 
The mystic gulf from God to man? 
To be alone wilt thou begin 
When worlds of lovers hem thee in? 
To-morrow, when the masks shall fall 
That dizen Nature's carnival, 190 

The pure shall see by their own will, 
Which overflowing Love shall fill, 
'Tis not within the force of fate 
The fate-conjoined to separate. 
But thou, my votary, weepest thou? 

1 gave thee sight — where is it now? 
I taught thy heart beyond the reach 
Of ritual, bible, or of speech; 

Wrote in thy mind's transparent table. 
As far as the incommunicable ; 200 

Taught thee each private sign to raise 
Lit by the supersolar blaze. 
Past utterance, and past belief. 
And past the blasphemy of grief, 
The mysteries of Nature's heart ; 
And though no Muse can these impart, 
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing 

" breast. 
And all is clear from east to west. 

"I came to thee as to a friend; 
Dearest, to thee I did not send 210 

Tutors, but a joyful eye. 
Innocence that matched the sky, 
Lovely locks, a form of wonder, 
Laughter rich as woodland thunder. 



1 



That thou might'st entertain apart 

The richest flowering of all art: 

And, as the great all-loving Day 

Through smallest chambers takes its way, 

That thou might'st break thy daily bread 

With prophet, savior and head; ^-° 

That thou might'st cherish for thine own 

The riches of sweet Mary's Son, 

Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon. 

And tboughtest thou such guest 

Would in thy hall take up his rest? 

Would rushing life forget her laws, 

Fate's glowing revolution pause? 

High omens ask diviner guess; 

Not to be conned to tediousness. 

And know my higher gifts unbind 230 

The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 

When the scanty shores are full 

With Thought's perilous, whirling pool; 

When frail Nature can no more. 

Then the Spirit strikes the hour : 

My servant Death, with solving rite, 

Pours finite into infinite. 

Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow, 

Whose streams through Nature circling go ? 

Nail the wild star to its track 240 

On the half-climbed zodiac? 

Light is light which radiates. 

Blood is blood which circulates, 

Life is life which generates. 

And many-seeming life is one, — 

Wilt thou transfix and make it none? 

Its onward force too starkly pent 

In figure, bone and lineament? 

Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, 

Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 250 

Nor see the genius of the whole 

Ascendant in the private soul, 

Beckon it when to go and come, 

Self-announced its hour of doom? 

Fair the soul's recess and shrine, 

Magic-built to last a season; 

Masterpiece of love benign. 

Fairer that expansive reason 

Whose omen 'tis, and sign. 

Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know 260 

What rainbows teach, and sunsets show? 

Verdict which accumulates 

From lengthening scroll of human fates, 

Voice of earth to earth returned. 

Prayer of saints that inly burned, — 

Saying, What is excellent, 

As God lives, is permanent; 

Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain; 

Heart's love will meet thee again. 

Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye 270 

Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 

Not of adamant and gold 

Built he heaven stark and cold; 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



211 



No, but a nest of bending reeds, 
Flowering grass and scented weeds; 
Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, 
Or bow above the tempest bent; 
Built of tears and sacred flames, 
And virtue reaching to its aims ; 
Built of furtherance and pursuing. 
Not of spent deeds, but of doing. 
Silent rushes the swift Lord 
Through ruined systems still restored, 
Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, 
Plants with worlds the wilderness; 
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 
House and tenant go to ground, 
Lost in God, in Godhead found." 



2S0 



1842-1846. 



"Poems," 1847. 



ODE I 

Inscribed to W. H. Channing 

Though loath to grieve 
The evil time's sole patriot, 
I cannot leave 
My honeyed thought 
For the priest's cant, 
Or statesman's rant. 



If I refuse 

My study for their politique, 

Which at the best is trick, 

The angry Muse 

Puts confusion in my brain. 



•But who is he that prates 
Of the culture of mankind, 
Of better arts and life? 
Go, blindworm, go. 
Behold the famous States 
Harrying Mexico 
With rifle and with knife! 
Or who, with accent bolder. 
Dare praise the freedom-loving moun- 
taineer? 20 
I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook ! 
And in thy valleys, Agiochook ! 
The jackals of the negro-holder. 

^W. H. Channing (1780-1842) though a gentle 
scholarly man, was among the early, fearless 
enemies of slavery. Emerson hated slavery, but 
no more than many another human evil. Ac- 
cording to Emerson's son this poem was prob- 
ably addressed to W. H. Channing the younger, 
a nephew, who was also an urgent anti-slavery 
advocate. 



The God who made New Hampshire 

Taunted the lofty land 

With little men;— 

Small bat and wren 

House in the oak: — 

If earth-fire cleave 

The upheaved land, and bury the folk, 30 

The southern crocodile would grieve. 

Virtue palters ; Right is hence ; 

Freedom praised, but hid; 

Funeral eloquence 

Rattles the cofiin-lid. 

What boot's thy zeal, 

O glowing friend. 

That would indignant rend 

The northland from the south? 

Wherefore? to what good end? 40 

Boston Bay and Bunker Hill 

Would serve things still; — 

Things are of the snake. 

The horseman serves the horse, 
The neatherd serves the neat. 
The merchant serves the purse, 
The eater serves his meat; 
'Tis the day of the chattel, 
Web to weave, and corn to grind; 
Things are in the saddle, 5° 

And ride mankind. 

There are two laws discrete. 

Not reconciled, — 

Law for man, and law for thing; 

The last builds town and fleet, 

But it runs wild. 

And doth the man unking. 

'Tis fit the forest fall. 

The steep be graded, 

The mountain tunnelled, 60 

The sand shaded, 

The orchard planted, 

The glebe tilled. 

The prairie granted. 

The steamer built. 

Let man serve law for man; 

Live for friendship, live for love, 

For truth's and harmony's behoof; 

The state may follow how it can, 

As Olympus follows Jove. 70 

Yet do not I implore 
The wrinkled shopman to my sounding 

woods. 
Nor bid the unwilling senator 
Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes. 
Every one to his chosen work; — 



212 



. AMERICAN POETRY 



Foolish hands may mix and mar; 
Wise and sure the issues are. 
Round they roll till dark is light, 
Sex to sex, and even to odd; — 
The over-god So 

Who marries Right to Might, 
Who peoples, unpeoples, — 
He vi^ho exterminates 
Races by stronger races. 
Black by white faces, — 
Knows to bring honey 
Out of the lion; 
Grafts gentlest scion 
On pirate and Turk. 

The Cossack eats Poland, 9o 

Like stolen fruit; 
Her last noble is ruined. 
Her last poet mute : 
Straight, into double band 
The victors divide ; 
Half for freedom strike and stand; — 
The astonished Muse finds thousands at 
her side. 

"Poems," 1847. 



THE WORLD-SOUL 

Thanks to the morning light. 

Thanks to the foaming sea. 
To the uplands of New Hampshire, 

To the green-haired forest free; 
Thanks to each man of courage. 

To the maids of holy mind, 
To the boy with his games undaunted 

Who never looks behind. 

Cities of proud hotels. 

Houses of rich and great. 
Vice nestles in your chambers. 

Beneath your roofs of slate. 
It cannot conquer folly, — 

Time-and-space-conquering steam, — 
And the light-outspeeding telegraph 

Bears nothing on its beam. 

The politics are base; 

The letters do not cheer; 
And 'tis far in the deeps of history. 

The voice that speaketh clear. 
Trade and the streets ensnare us, 

Our bodies are weak and worn; 
We plot and corrupt each other. 

And we despoil the unborn. 

Yet there in the parlor sits 
Some figure of noble guise, — 

Our angel, in a stranger's form. 
Or woman's pleading eyes; 



Or only a flashing sunbeam 

In at the window-pane; 
Or Music pours on mortals 

Its beautiful disdain. 

The inevitable morning 

Finds them who in cellars be; 
And be sure the all-loving Nature 

Will smile in a factory. 
Yon ridge of purple landscape, 

Yon sky between the walls. 
Hold all the hidden wonders 

In scanty intervals. 

Alas ! the Sprite that haunts us 

Deceives our rash desire; 
It whispers of the glorious gods. 

And leaves us in the mire. 
We cannot learn the cipher 

That's writ upon our cell; 
Stars taunt us by a mystery 

Which we could never spell. 



30 



I 

40 



If but one hero knew it. 

The world would blush in flame; so 
The sage, till he hit the secret, 

Would hang his head for shame. 
Our brothers have not read it. 

Not one has found the key; 
And henceforth we are comforted, — 

We are but such as they. 

Still, still the secret presses ; 

The nearing clouds draw down; 
The crimson morning flames into 

The fopperies of the town. 60 

Within, without the idle earth. 

Stars weave eternal rings ; 
The sun himself shines heartily, > 

And shares the joy he brings. 

And what if Trade sow cities 

Like shells along the shore, 
And thatch with towns the prairie broad 

With railways ironed o'er? — 
They are but sailing foam-bells 

Along Thought's causing stream, 70 
And take their shape and sun-color 

From him that sends the dream. 

For Destiny never swerves 

Nor yields to men the helm; 
He shoots his thought, by hidden nerves. 

Throughout the solid realm. 
The patient Daemon sits, 

With roses and a shroud; 
He has his way, and deals his gifts, — 

But ours is not allowed. 80 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



213 



He is no churl nor trifler, 

And his viceroy is none, — 
Love-without-weakness, — 

Of Genius sire and son. 
And his will is not thwarted; 

The seeds of land and sea 
Are the atoms of his body bright, 

And his behest obey. 

He serveth the servant', 

The brave he loves amain ; 9' 

He kills the cripple and the sick, 

And straight begins again ; 
For gods delight in gods, 

And thrust the weak aside; 
To him who scorns their charities 

Their arms fly open wide. 

When the old world is sterile 

And the ages are effete, 
He will from wrecks and sediment 

The fairer world complete. lot 

He forbids to despair ; 

His cheeks mantle with mirth ; 
And the unimagined good of men 

Is yeaning at the birth. 

Spring still makes spring in the mind 

When sixty years are told ; 
Love wakes anew this throblaing heart. 

And we are never old ; 
Over the winter glaciers 

I see the summer glow, "c 

And through the wild-piled snow-drift 

The warm rosebuds below. 

The Diadem: A Present for All Sea- 
\ sons, Philadelphia, 1847. 



MERLIN 

Thy trivial harp will never please 

Or fill my craving ear; 

Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, 

Free, peremptory, clear. 

No jinghng serenader's art, 

Nor tinkle of piano strings. 

Can make the wild blood start 

In its mystic springs. 

The kingly bard 

Must smite the chords rudely and hard, lo 

As with hammer or with mace; 

That they may render back 

Artful thunder, which conveys 

Secrets of the solar track, 

Sparks of the supersolar blaze, 

Merlin's blows are strokes of fate. 



Chiming with the forest tone. 

When boughs buffet boughs in the wood; 

Chiming with the gasp and moan 

Of the ice-imprisoned flood; 2° 

With the pulse of manly hearts; 

With the voice of orators; 

With the din of city arts; 

With the cannonade of wars; 

With the marches of the brave; 

And prayers of might from martyrs' cave. 

Great is the art. 

Great be the manners, of the bard. 

He shall not his brain encumber 

With the coil of rhythm and number; 3° 

But, leaving rule and pale forethought, ' 

He shall aye climb 

For his rhyme. 

"Pass in, pass in," the angels say, 

"In to the upper doors, 

Nor count compartments of the floors, 

But mount to paradise 

By the stairway of surprise." 

Blameless master of the games, 

King of sport that never shames, 4° 

He shall daily joy dispense 

Hid in song's sweet influence. 

Forms more cheerly live and go, 

What time'the subtle mind 

Sings aloud the tune whereto 

Their pulses beat. 

And march their feet. 

And their members are combined. 

By Sybarites beguiled. 

He shall no task decline. so 

Merlin's mighty line 

Extremes of nature reconciled, — 

Bereaved a tyrant of his will. 

And made the hon mild. 

Songs can the tempest still. 

Scattered on the stormy air. 

Mould the year to fair increase, 

And bring in poetic peace. 

He shall not seek to weave. 

In weak, unhappy times, 6o 

Efficacious rhymes; 

Wait his returning strength. 

Bird that from nadir's floor 

To the zenith's top can soar, — 

The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds 

that journey's length. 
Nor profane affect to hit 
Or compass that, by meddling wit. 
Which only the propitious mind . 
Publishes when 'tis inclined. 
There are open hours 7° 



214 



AAIERICAN POETRY 



I 



Wlien the God's will sallies free. 

And the dull idiot might see 

The flowing fortunes of a thousand 

years ; — 
Sudden, at unawares, 
Self-moved, fly to the doors. 
Nor sword of angels could reveal 
\\'hat thev conceal. 



1845-46. 



"Poems;" 1847. 



HAMATREYA 



Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer. Meri- 

am, Flint ^ 
Possessed the land which rendered to their 

toil 
Hay. corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool 

and wood. 
Each of these landlords walked amidst 

his farm. 
Saying, " 'Tis mine, my children's and 

my name's. 
How sweet the west wind sounds in my 

own trees ! 
How graceful climb those shadows on 

my hill ! 
I fancy these pure waters and the flags 
Know me, as does my dog : we sympa- 
thize ; 
And. I aflirm, mv actions smack of the 

soil." " 10 

"Where are these men? Asleep beneath 
their grounds : 

And strangers, fond as they, their fur- 
rows plough. 

Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boast- 
ful boys 

Earth-proud, proud of the earth which 
is not theirs ; 

Who steer the plough, but cannot steer 
their feet 

Clear of the grave. 

They added ridge to valley, brook to pond. 

And sighed for all that bounded their 
domain ; 

"This suits me for a pasture ; that's my 
park; 

We must have clav, lime, gravel, granite- 
ledge, ' 20 

And misty lowland, where to go for peat. 

The land is well, — lies fairly to the south. 

'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea 
and back, 

^ All early settlers in Concord. Peter Bulkley, 
a direct ancestor of Emerson, was the first minister 
of the parish. 



n 



To find the sitfast acres where you left 

them." 
Ah ! the hot owner sees not Death, who 

adds 
Him to his land, a lump of mould the 

more. 
Hear what the Earth says :— 

EARTH -SONG 

"Mine and yours; 

Mine, not yours. 

Earth endures ; y 

Stars abide — 

Shine down in the old sea; 

Old are the shores : 

Rut where are old men? 

I who have seen much, 

Such have I never seen. 

"The lawyer's deed 

Ran sure. 

In tail. 

To them, and to their heirs 40 

Who shall succeed. 

Without fail, 

Forevermore. 

"Here is the land. 

Shaggy with wood. 

With" Its old valley. 

Mound and flood. 

But the heritors?— 

Fled like the flood's foam. 

The lawyer, and the laws, 5° 

And the kingdom. 

Clean swept herefrom. 

"They called me theirs. 

Who so controlled me ; 

Yet every one 

Wished to stay, and is gone. 

How am I theirs. 

If thev cannot hold me. 

But I hold them?" 

When I heard the Earth-song <^ 

I was no longer brave; 

Aly avarice cooled 

Like lust in the chill of the grave. 

"Poems," 1847. 
MUSKETAQUID 

Because I was content with these poor 

fields. 
Low, open meads, slender and sluggish 

streams. 
And found a home in haunts which others 

scorned. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



215 



The partial woofl-gods overpaid my love, 
And granted me the freedom of their 

state, 
And in their secret senate have prevailed 
With the dear, dangerous lords that rule 

our life, 
Made moon and planets parties to their 

bond. 
And through my rock-like, solitary wont 
Shot million rays of thought and tender- 
ness. '° 
For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, 

the Spring 
Visits the valley; — break away the 

clouds, — 
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air. 
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream. 
Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird, 
I'.lue-coatcd, — flying before from tree to 

tree, 
Courageous sing a delicate overture 
To lead the tardy concert of the year. 
Onward and nearer rides the sun of May; 
And wide around, the marriage of the 

plants f 

Ir sweetly solemnized. Then flows amain 
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and 

crag, 
Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade. 
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged 

cliff 
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours. 

P^eneath low bills, in the broad interval 
1'hrough which at will our Indian rivulet 
Winds mindful still of sannup and of 

squaw, 
Whose pipe and arrow off the plough un- 

buries. 
Here in pine houses built of new-fallen 

trees, 3o 

Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers 

dwell. 
Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious 

road, 
Or, it may be, a picture; to these men. 
The landscape is an armory of powers. 
Which, one by one, they know to draw 

and use. 
They harness beast, bird, insect, to their 

work; 
They prove the virtues of each bed of 

rock, 
And, like the chemist 'mid his loaded jars. 
Draw from each stratum its adapted use 
To drug their crops or weapon their arts 

withal. 40 



They turn the frost upon their chemic 

heap. 
They set the wind to winnow pulse and 

grain, 
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile 

slime. 
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow, 
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods 
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by 

year. 
They fight the elements with elements 
(That one would say, meadow and forest 

walked. 
Transmuted in these men to rule their 

likej. 
And by the order in the field disclose 5° 
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain. 

What these strong masters wrote at large 

in miles, 
I followed in small copy in my acre; 
For there's no rood has not a star above 

it; 
The cordial quality of pear or plum 
Ascends as gladly in a single tree 
As in broad orchards resonant with bees; 
And every atom poises for itself. 
And for the whole. The gentle deities 
Showed me the lore of colors and of 

sounds, 60 

The innumerable tenements of beauty. 
The miracle of generative force, 
F'ar-reaching concords of astronomy 
Felt in the plants and in the punctual 

birds ; 
Better, the linked purpose of the whole. 
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty 
In the glad home plain-dealing Nature 

gave. 
The polite found me impolite; the great 
Would mortify me, but in vain; for still 
I am a willow of the wilderness, 7o 

Loving the wind that bent me. All my 

hurts 
My garden spade can heal. A woodland 

walk, / 

A quest of river-grapes, a mocking 

thrush, 
A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine, 
Salve my worst wounds. 
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my 

ear: 
"Dost love our manners? Canst thou 

silent lie? 
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like Nature 

pass 
Into the winter night's extinguished mood? 
Canst thou shine now, then darkle, 8q 

And being latent, feel thyself no less? 



216 



AMERICAN POETRY 



As, when the all-worshipped moon at- 
tracts the eye, 
The river, hill, stems, foliage are obscure. 
Yet envies none, none are unenviable." 

"Poems," 1847. 



ETIENNE DE LA BOECEi 

I serve you not, if you I follow, 

Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow ; 

And bend my fancy to your leading. 

All too nimble for my treading. 

When the pilgrimage is done. 

And we've the landscape overrun, 

I am bitter, vacant, thwarted, 

And your heart is unsupported. 

Vainly valiant, you have missed 

The manhood that should yours resist, — ^° 

Its complement, but if I could, 

In severe or cordial mood, 

Lead you rightly to my altar, 

Where the wisest muses falter, 

And worship that world-warning spark 

Which dazzles me in midnight dark, 

Equalizing small and large, 

While the soul it doth surcharge, 

Till the poor is wealthy grown. 

And the hermit never alone, — 20 

The traveller and the road seem one 

With the errand to be done, — 

That were a man's and lover's part, 

That were Freedom's whitest chart. 



1833. 



"Poems," 1847. 



BRAHMA 2 



If the red slayer thinks he slays, 
Or if the slain think he is slain. 

They know not well the subtle ways 
I keep, and pass, and turn again. 

Far or forgot to me is near; 

Shadow and sunlight are the same ; 
The vanished gods to me appear; 

And one to me are shame and fame. 

They reckon ill who leave me out; 

When me they fly, I am the wings ; 
I am the doubter and the doubt, " 

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. 

^ The friendship between Etienne de La Boece 
and Montaigne has become proverbial. It is 
described by Montaigne himself in the twenty- 
seventh chapter of his "Essays." 

^ For a good brief discussion of this much dis- 
cussed poem, see C. F. Richardson's "American 
Literature," p. 161 et seq. 



The strong gods pine for my abode, 
And pine in vain the sacred Seven; 
But thou, meek lover of the good ! 
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. 

1857. 
DAYS 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 
And marching single in an endless file. 
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 
To each they offer gifts after his will. 
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds 

them all. 
I, in my pleached garden, watched the 

pomp, 
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day 
Turned and departed silent. I, too late, 1° 
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 

1851. Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1857. 

THE ROMANY GIRL 

The sun goes down, and with him takes 
The coarseness of my poor attire; 
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame 
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher. 

Pale Northern girls ! you scorn our race ; 
You captives of your air-tight halls. 
Wear out in-doors your sickly days. 
But leave us the horizon walls. 

And if I take you, dames, to task, 
And say it frankly without guile, 10 

Then you are Gypsies in a mask, 
And I the lady all the while. 

If on the heath, below the moon, 
I court and play with paler blood, 
Me false to mine dare whisper none, — 
One sallow horseman knows me good. 

Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain. 
For teeth and hair with shopmen deal; 
My swarthy tint is in the grain. 
The rocks and forest know it real. 20, 

The wild air bloweth in our lungs. 
The keen stars twinkle in our eyes. 
The birds gave us our wily tongues. 
The panther in our dances flies. 

You doubt we read the stars on high, 
Nathless we read your fortunes true ; 
The stars may hide in the upper sky. 
But without glass we fathom you. 

1854. Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1857. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



217 



SEASHORE 1 

I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea 
Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to 

come? 
Am I not always here, thy summer home? 
Is not my voice thy music, morn and eve? 
My breath thy healthful climate in the 

heats. 
My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath? 
Was ever building like my terraces? 
Was ever couch magnificent as mine? 
Lie on the warm rock-ledges, and there 

learn 
A little hut suffices like a town. lo 

I make your sculptured architecture vain. 
Vain beside mine. I drive my wedges 

home, 
And carve the coastwise mountain into 

caves. 
Lo ! here is Rome and Nineveh and 

Thebes, 
Karnak and Pyramid and Giant's Stairs 
Half piled or prostrate; and my newest 

slab 
Older than all thy race. 

Behold the Sea, 
The opaHne, the plentiful and strong. 
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June, 
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July; 20 
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds, 
Purger of earth, and medicine of men; 
Creating a sweet climate by my breath. 
Washing out harms and griefs from mem- 
ory, 
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow. 
Giving a hint of that which changes not. 
Rich are the sea-gods : — who gives gifts 

but they? 
They grope the sea for pearls, but more 

than pearls : 
They pluck Force thence, and give it to 

the wise. 
For every wave is wealth to Daedalus, 3° 
Wealth to the cunning artist who can 

work 
This matchless strength. Where shall he 

find, O waves ! 
A load your Atlas shoulders cannot hft? 

* This poem, as E. W. Emerson records, is a 
striking illustration of Emerson's oneness in 
method and point of view in his writing of prose 
and verse. The day after a two-weeks' visit to 
Cape Ann in 1857 he entered in his journal 
a prose passage, which with almost no changes 
he recast into this blank verse. The original 
entry in the Journal occurs for July 3, 1857. 
A similar parallel passage is supplied for "Two 
Rivers," in E. W. Emerson's "Emerson in Con- 
cord," pp. 232, 3. 



I with my hammer pounding evermore 
The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust. 
Strewing my bed, and, in another age. 
Rebuild a continent of better men. 
Then I unbar the doors : my paths lead out 
The exodus of nations : I disperse 
Men to all shores that front the hoary 
'main. 4o 

I too have arts and sorceries ; 
Illusion dwells forever with the wave. 
I know what spells are laid. Leave me 

to deal 
With credulous- and imaginative man ; 
For, though he scoop my water in his 

palm, 
A few rods ofi he deems it gems and 

clouds. 
Planting strange fruits and sunshine on 

the shore, 
I make some coast alluring, some lone isle, 
To distant men, who must go there, or 

die. 

1857. The Boatswain's Whistle, Boston, 
Nov. 18, 1864. 



TWO RIVERS 

Thy summer voice, Musketaquit, 
Repeats the music of the rain; 
But sweeter rivers pulsing flit 
Through thee, as thou through Concord 
Plain. 

Thou in thy narrow banks art pent : 
The stream I love unbounded goes 
Through flood and sea and firmament; 
Through light, through life, it forward 
flows. 

I see the inundation sweet, 

I hear the spending of the stream 'o 

Through years, through men, through Na- 
ture fleet. 

Through love and thought, through power 
and dream. 

Musketaquit, a goblin strong. 
Of shard and flint makes jewels gay; 
They lose their grief who hear his song. 
And where he winds is the day of day. 

So forth and brighter fares my stream, — 
Who drink it shall not thirst again; 
No darkness stains its equal gleam 
And ages drop in it like rain. 20 

1856. 



Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1858. 



218 



AMERICAN POETRY 



WALDEINSAMKEIT 

I do not count the hours I spend 
In wandering by the sea; 
The forest is my loyal friend, 
Like God it useth me. 

In plains that room for shadows make 
Of skirting hills to lie, 
Bound in by streams which give and take 
Their colors from the sky; 

Or on the mountain-crest sublime, 

Or down the oaken glade, i° 

O what have I to do with time? 

For this the day was made. 

Cities of mortals woe-begone 
Fantastic care derides. 
But in the serious landscape lone 
Stern benefit abides. 

Sheen will tarnish, honey clo}^ 

And merry is only a mask of sad. 

But, sober on a fund of joy, 

The woods at heart are glad. 20 

There the great Planter plants 
Of fruitful worlds the grain. 
And with a million spells enchants 
The souls that walk in pain. 

Still on the seeds of all he made 

The rose of beauty burns ; 

Through times that wear and forms that 

fade, 
Immortal youth returns. 

The black ducks mounting from the lake, 
The pigeon in the pines, 3° 

The bittern's boom, a desert make 
Which no false art refines. 

Down in yon watery nook. 

Where bearded mists divide, 

The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, 

The sires of Nature, hide. 

Aloft, in secret veins of air. 
Blows the sweet breath of song, 
O, few to scale those uplands dare, 
Though they to all belong! 4° 

See thou bring not to field or stone 
The fancies found in books ; 
Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, 
To brave the landscape's looks. 



Oblivion here thy wisdom is. 
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; 
For a proud idleness like this 
Crowns all thy mean affairs. 

1857. Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1858. 



WORSHIP 

This is he, who, felled by foes, 
Sprung harmless up, refreshed by blows: 
He to captivity was sold. 
But him no prison-bars would hold : 
Though they sealed him in a rock. 
Mountain chains he can unlock : 
Thrown to lions for their meat, 
The crouching lion kissed his feet; 
Bound to the stake, no flames appalled, 
But arched o'er him an honoring vault, 'o 
This is he men miscall Fate, 
Threading dark ways, arriving late. 
But ever coming in time to crown 
The truth, and hurl wrong-doers down. 
He is the oldest, and best known. 
More near than aught thou call'st thy 

own 
Yet, greeted in another's- eyes, 
Disconcerts with glad surprise. 
This is Jove, who, deaf to prayers. 
Floods with blessings unawares. -° 

Draw, if thou canst, the mystic line 
Severing rightly his from thine. 
Which is human, which divine. 

"Conduct of Life," 1860. 



THE TEST 

(Musa loquitur.) 

I hung my verses in the wind. 

Time and tide their faults may find. 

All were winnowed through and through, 

Five lines lasted sound and true; 

Five were smelted in a pot 

Than the South more fierce and hot; 

These the siroc could not melt. 

Fire their fiercer flaming felt. 

And the meaning was more white 

Than July's meridian light. 1° 

Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, 

Nor time unmake what poets know. 

Have you eyes to find the five 

Which five hundred did survive? 

Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1861 



II 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



219 



THE TITMOUSE 

You shall not be overtjold 
When you deal with arctic cold, 
As late I found my lukewarm blood 
Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 
How should I fight? my foeman fine 
Has million arms to one of mine : 
East, west, for aid I looked in vain, 
East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home; 
Must borrow his winds who there would 

come. 10 

Up and away for life ! be fleet ! — 
The frost-king ties my fumbling feet. 
Sings in my ears, my hands are stones. 
Curdles the blood to the marble bones. 
Tugs at the heart - strings, numbs the 

sense, 
And hems in life with narrowing fence. 
Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, — 
The punctual stars will vigil keep, — 
Embalmed by purifying cold; 
The winds shall sing their dead - march 

old, _ _ 20 

The snow is no ignoble shroud, 

The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. 

Softly, — but this way fate was pointing, 
'Twas coming fast to such anointing, 
When piped a tiny voice hard by, 
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 
Chic-chic-a-dee-dee ! saucy note 
Out of sound heart and merry throat, 
As if it said, "Good day, good sir! 
Fine afternoon, old passenger ! 3° . 

Happy to meet you in these places. 
Where January brings few faces." 

This poet, though he live apart, 
Moved by his hospitable heart. 
Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort. 
To do the honors of his court. 
As fits a feathered lord of land; 
Flew near, with soft wing grazed my 

hand. 
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low. 
Prints his small impress on the snow, 4° 
Shows feats of his gymnastic play, 
Head downward, clinging to the spray. 

Here was this atom in full breath. 
Hurling defiance at vast death ; 
This scrap of valor just for play 
Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray. 
As if to shame my weak behavior; 
I greeted loud my little savior, 
"You pet! what dost here? and what for? 
In these woods, thy small Labrador, 5o 
At this pinch, wee San Salvador ! 



What fire burns in that little chest 

So frolic, stout and self-possest? 

Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; 

Ashes and jet all hues outshine. 

Why are not diamonds black and gray, 

To ape thy dare-devil array? 

And I affirm, the spacious North 

Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 

I think no virtue goes with size; 6o 

The reason of all cowardice 

Is, that men are overgrown, 

And, to be valiant, must come down 

To the titmouse dimension." 

'Tis good will makes intelligence. 
And I began to catch the sense 
Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors 
In the great woods, on prairie floors. 
I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the 

sea, 
I too have a hole in a hollow tree ; 7° 

And I like less when Summer beats 
With stifling beams on these retreats, 
Than noontide twilights which snow 

makes 
With tempest of the blinding flakes. 
For well the soul, if stout within. 
Can arm impregnably the skin ; 
And polar frost my frame defied, 
Made of the air that blows outside." 

With glad remembrance of my debt, 
I homeward turn ; farewell, my pet ! 8o 
When here again thy pilgrim comes, 
He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread. 
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed; 
The Providence that is most large 
Takes hearts like thine in special charge, 
Helps who for their own need are strong, 
And the sky doats on cheerful song. 
Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 
O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; 9° 
For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, 
As 'twould accost some frivolous wing. 
Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! 
And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee! 
I think old Caesar must have heard 
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird. 
And, echoed in some frosty wold, 
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. 
And I will write our annals new. 
And thank thee for a better clew, 1°° 

I, who dreamed not when I came here 
To find the antidote of fear. 
Now hear thee say in Roman key, 
Posan! Vent, vidi, znci. 

1862. Atlantic Monthly, May, 1862. 



220 



AMERICAN POETRY 



VOLUNTARIES 



Low and mournful be the strain, 
Haughty thought be far from me; 
Tones of penitence and pain, 
Meanings of the tropic sea; 
Low and tender in the cell 
Where a captive sits in chains. 
Crooning ditties treasured well 
From his Afric's torrid plains. 
Sole estate his sire bequeathed, — 
Hapless sire to hapless son, — lo 

Was the wailing song he breathed, 
And his chain when life was done. 

What his fault, or what his crime? 
Or what ill planet crossed his prime? 
Heart too soft and will too weak 
To front the fate that crouches near, — 
Dove beneath the vulture's beak; — 
Will song dissuade the thirsty spear? 
Dragged from his mother's arms and 

breast. 
Displaced, disfurnished here, 20 

His wistful toil to do his best 
Chilled by a ribald jeer. 

Great men in the Senate sate, 
Sage and hero, side by side, 
Building for their sons the State, 
Which they shall rule with pride. 
They forbore to break the chain 
Which bound the dusky tribe, 
Checked by the owners' fierce disdain. 
Lured by "Union" as the bribe. 3° 

Destiny sat by, and said, 
"Pang for pang your seed shall pay, 
Hide in false peace your coward head, 
I bring round the harvest day." 



Freedom all winged expands, 
Nor perches in a narrow place ; 
Her broad van seeks unplanted lands; 
She loves a poor and virtuous race. 
Clinging to a colder zone 
Whose dark sky sheds the snowflake 
down, 40 

The snowflake is her banner's star, 
Her stripes the boreal streamers are. 
Long she loved the Northman well; 
Now the iron age is done, 
She will not refuse to dwell 
With the offspring of the Sun; 
Foundling of the desert far. 
Where palms plume, siroccos blaze, 
He roves unhurt the burning ways 
In climates of the summer star. so 



He has avenues to God 

Hid from men of Northern brain, 

Far beholding, without cloud, 

What these with slowest steps attain. 

If once the generous chief arrive 

To lead him willing to be led. 

For freedom he will strike and strive, 

And drain his heart till he be dead. 



In an age of fops and toys, 

Wanting wisdom, void of right, 60 

Who shall nerve heroic boys 

To hazard all in Freedom's fight, — 

Break sharply off their jolly games, 

Forsake their comrades gay 

And quit proud homes and youthful dames 

For famine, toil and fray? 

Yet on the nimble air benign 

Speed nimbler messages, 

That waft the breath of grace divine 

To hearts in sloth and ease. 70 

So nigh is grandeur to our dust. 

So near is God to man, 

When Duty whispers low, Thou must, 

The youth replies, / can. 



IV 

Oh, well for the fortunate soul 

which Music's wings infold, 

Stealing away the memory 

Of sorrows new and old ! 

Yet happier he whose inward sight, 

Stayed on his subtile thought, 80 

Shuts his sense on toys of time, 

To vacant bosoms brought. 

But best befriended of the God 

He who, in evil times. 

Warned by an inward voice, 

Heeds not the darkness and the dread. 

Biding by his rule and choice, 

Feeling only the fiery thread 

Leading over heroic ground. 

Walled with mortal terror round, 9° 

To the aim which him allures, 

And the sweet heaven his deed secures. 

Peril around, all else appalling. 

Cannon in front and leaden rain 

Him duty through the clarion calling 

To the van called not in vain. 



Stainless soldier on the walls, 
Knowing this, — and knows no more, — 
Whoever fights, whoever falls, 
Justice conquers evermore, 100 

Justice after as before, — 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



221 



And he who battles on her side, 
God, though he were ten times slain, 
Crowns him victor glorified, 
Victor- over death and pain. 



Waters that wash my garden-side 
Play not in Nature's lawful web. 
They heed not moon or solar tide,— 
Five years elapse from flood to ebb. 



Blooms the laurel which belongs 

To the valiant chief who fights; 

I see the wreath, I hear the songs 

Lauding the Eternal Rights, 

Victors over daily wrongs : iio 

Awful victors, they misguide 

Whom they will destroy. 

And their coming triumph hide 

In our downfall, or our joy : 

They reach no term, they never sleep, 

In equal strength through space abide; 

Though, feigning dwarfs, they crouch and 

creep, 
The strong they slay, the swift outstride : 
Fate's grass grows rank in valley clods. 
And rankly on the castled steep, — 120 
Speak it firmly, these are gods, 
All are ghosts beside. 



1863. 



Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1863. 



MY GARDEN 



If I could put rny woods in song 
And tell what's there enjoyed. 
All men would to my gardens throng, 
And leave the cities void. 



In my plot no tulips blow, — 
Snow-loving pines and oaks instead; 
And rank the savage maples grow 
From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red. 



Hither hasted, in old time, Jove, 
And every god, — none did refuse; 
And be sure at last came Love, 
And after Love, the Muse. 

Keen ears can catch a syllable. 

As if one spake to another, 3° 

In the hemlocks tall, untamable, 

And what the whispering grasses smother. 

^olian harps in the pine 
Ring with the song of the Fates; 
Infant Bacchus in the vine, — 
Far distant yet. his chorus waits. 

Canst thou copy in verse one chime 
Of the wood-bell's peal and cry, 
Write in a book the morning's prime. 
Or match with words that tender sky? 40 

Wonderful verse of the gods, . 
Of one import, of varied tone; 
They chant the bliss of their abodes 
To man imprisoned in his own. 

Ever the words of the gods resound; 
But the porches of man's ear 
Seldom in this low life's round. 
Are unsealed, that he may hear. 



Warrdering voices in the air 
And murmurs in the wold 
Speak what I cannot declare, 
Yet cannot all withhold. 



50 



My garden is a forest ledge 
Which older forests bound; 10 

The banks slope down to the blue lake- 
edge, 
Then plunge to depths profound. . 

Here once the Deluge ploughed, 
Laid the terraces, one by one; 
Ebbing later whence it flowed. 
They bleach and dry in the sun. 

The sowers make haste to depart, — 
The wind and the birds which sowed it; 
Not for fame, nor by rules of art, , 
Planted these, and tempests flowed it. 20 



When the shadow fell on the lake, 
The whirlwind in ripples wrote 
Air-bells of fortune that shine and break. 
And omens above thought. 

But the meanings cleave to the lake. 
Cannot be carried in book or urn ; 
Go thy ways now, come later back. 
On waves and hedges still they burn. 6° 

These the fates of men forecast. 
Of better men than live to-day; 
If who can read them comes at last 
He will spell in the sculpture, "Stay." 

1846. - Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1866. 



222 



AMERICAN POETRY 



TERMINUS 1 

It is time to be old, 

To take in sail : — 

The god of bounds, 

Who sets to seas a shore, 

Came to me in his fatal rounds, 

And said : "No more ! 

No farther shoot 

Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy 

root. 
Fancy departs : no more invent ; 
Contract thy firmament ^° 

To compass of a tent. 
There's not enough for this and that, 
Alake thy option which of two; 
Economize the failing river. 
Not the less revere the Giver, 
Leave the many and hold the few. 
Timely wise accept the terms, 
Soften the fall with wary foot; 
A little while 

Still plan and smile, 20 

And, — fault of novel germs, — 
Mature the unfallen fruit. 
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, 
Ead husbands of their fires. 
Who, when they gave thee breath, 
Failed to bequeath 
The needful sinew stark as once, 
The Baresark marrow to thy bones, 
But left a legacy of ebbing veins, 
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins. — 3° 
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb. 
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb." 

As the bird trims her to the gale, 
I trim myself to the storm of time, 
I man the rudder, reef the sail, 
Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime : 
"Lowly faithful, banish fear. 
Right onward drive unharmed; 
The port, well worth the cruise, is near. 
And every wave is charmed." 40 

1866. Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1867. 

FRAGMENTS 

The sun set, but set not his hope : — 
Stars rose, his faith was earlier up : 
Fixed on the enormous galaxy. 
Deeper and older seemed his eye, 
And matched his sufferance sublime 
The taciturnity of Time. 

* Emerson was sixty-three years old when he 
wrote this poem. His powers of mind began to 
decline about five years later, although he lived 
in vigorous health for fifteen years. 



I grieve that better souls than mine 

Docile read my measured line : 

High destined youths and holy maids 

Hallow these my orchard shades; 

Environ me and me baptize 

With light that streams from gracious 

eyes. 
I dare not be beloved and known, 
I ungrateful, I alone. 

Ever find me dim regards. 

Love of ladies, love of bards, ^° 

Alarked forbearance, compliments, 

Tokens of benevolence. 

What then, can I love myself? 

Fame is profitless as pelf, 

A good in Nature not allowed 

They love me, as I love a cloud 

Sailing falsely 'in the sphere. 

Hated mist if it came near. 



For thought, and not praise; 

Thought is the wages 

For which I sell days. 

Will gladly sell ages 

And willing grow old 

Deaf and dumb and blind and cold, 

Melting matter into dreams. 

Panoramas which I saw 

And whatever glows or seems 

Into substance, into law. 



Let me go where'er I will 
I hear a sky-born music still : 
It sounds from all things old. 
It sounds from all things young. 
From all that's fair, from all that's foul. 
Peals out a cheerful song. 
It is not only in the rose. 
It is not only in the bird. 
Not only where the rainbow glows. 
Nor in the song of woman heard. 
But in the darkest, meanest things 
There alway. alway something sings. 
'Tis not in the high stars alone. 
Nor in the cups of budding flowers, 
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone. 
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers. 
But in the mud and scum of things 
There alway, alway something sings. 



For what need I of book or priest, 
Or sibyl from the mummied East, 
When every star is Bethlehem star? 
I count as many as there are 
Cinquefoils or violets in the grass. 
So many saints and saviours. 



II 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



223 



So many high behaviors 
Salute the bard who is alive 
And only sees what he doth give. 



Hold of the Maker, not the Made; 
Sit with the Cause, or grim or glad. 



I have no brothers and no peers, 
And the dearest interferes : 
When I would spend a lonely day. 
Sun and moon are in my way. 



He planted where the deluge ploughed, 
His hilled hands were wind and cloud; 
His eyes detect the Gods concealed 
In the hummock of the field. 



That book is good 

Which puts me in a working mood. 

Unless to Thought is added Will, 

Apollo is an imbecile. 



What parts, what gems, what colors 

shine, — 
Ah, but I miss the grand design. 



Shun passion, fold the hands of thrift, 

Sit still and Truth is near : 
Suddenly it will uplift 

Your eyelids to the sphere : 
Wait a little, you shall see 
The portraiture of things to be. 



Teach me your mood, O patient stars ! 

Who climb each night the ancient sky, 
Leaving on space no shade, no scars, 

No trace of age, no fear to die. 



His instant thought a poet spoke, 
And filled the age his fame; 
An inch of ground the lightning strook 
But lit the sky with fiame. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

(1809-1849) 



TAMERLANE i 

Kind solace in a dying hour ! 

Such, father, is not (now) my theme — 

I will not madly deem that power 

Of Earth may shrive me of the sin 
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in — 
I have no time to dote or dream : 

You call it hope — that fire of fire ! 

It is but agony of desire : 

If I can hope — O God! I can- 
Its fount is holier — more divine — 1° 

I would not call thee fool, old man, 
But such is not a gift of thine. 

Know thou the secret of a spirit 

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. 

O yearning heart ! I did inherit 
Thy withering portion with the fame. 

The searing glory which hath shone 

Amid the Jewels of my throne. 

Halo of Hell! and with a pain 

Not Hell shall make me fear again — 20 

craving heart, for the lost flowers 
And sunshine of my summer hours ! 
The undying voice of that dead time. 
With its interminable chime, 
Rings, in the spirit of a spell. 

Upon thy emptiness — a knell. 

1 have not always been as now : 
The fever'd diadem on my brow 

I claim'd and won usurpingly — 
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 3° 
Rome to the Csesar — this to me? 
The heritage of a kingly mind, 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 

1 "Tamerlane" appeared first in Tamerlane 
and Other Poems, 1827, but was entirely re- 
written for the 1829 volume, Al Aaraf, Tamer- 
lane, and Minor Poems. The text here used is 
practically that of the 1829 volume. A compari- 
son of the two versions is valuable, as showing 
Poe's growth in poetic power if not in narrative 
strength. 

As Poe conceives the story, Tamerlane is lured 
from his shepherd home in _ the mountains and 
from his early love by ambition. He conquers 
the entire Eastern world, and returns home to 
find that his love has died of neglect. The 
opening lines of the 1827 version give the set- 
ting more clearly. 



On mountain soil I first drew life : 
The mists of the Taglay have shed 2 
Nightly their dews upon my head. 
And, I believe, the winged strife 
And tumult of the headlong air 
Have nestled in my very hair. 40 

So late from Heaven — that dew — it fell 

('Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
Upon me with the touch of Hell, 

While the red flashing of the light 
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, 

Appeared to my half-closing eye 

The pageantry of monarchy. 
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 

Came hurriedly upon me, telling 

Of human battle, where my voice, 5° 

My own voice, silly child ! — -was swelling 
(O! how my spirit would rejoice, 
And leap within me at the cry) 
The battle-cry of Victory! 

The rain came down upon my head 
Unshelter'd — and the heavy wind 
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 
It was but man, I thought, who shed 

Laurels upon me: and the rush — 
The torrent of the chilly air 60 

Gurgled within my ear the crash 

Of empires — with the captive's prayer — 
The hum of suitors — and the tone 
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. 

My passions, from that hapless hour, 

Usurp'd a tyranny which men 
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to 
power. 
My innate nature — be it so.: 
But, father, there liv'd one who, then. 
Then — in my boyhood — when their fire 7° 

Burn'd with a still intenser glow 
(For passion must, with youth, expire) 
E'en then who knew this iron heart 
In woman's weakness had a part. 

2 The mountains of Belur Taglay are a branch 
of the Imaus, in the southern part of Independ- 
ent Tartary. They are celebrated for the singu- 
lar wildness and beauty of their valleys. (Poe, 
1827.) 



224 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



225 



I have no words — alas ! — to tell 
The loveliness of loving well! 
Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 
Are — shadows on th' unstable wind : 
Thus I remember having dwelt 

Some page of early lore upon, 
With loitering eye, till I have felt 
The letters — with their meaning — melt 

To fantasies — with none. 



O, she was worthy of all love ! 

Love — as in infancy was mine — 
'Twas such as angel minds above 

Might envy ; her young heart the shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 9° 

Were incense — then a goodly gift. 
For they were childish and upright — 
Pure — as her young example taught : 

Why did I leave it, and, adrift, 
Trust to the fire within, for light? 



We grew in age — and love — together — 
Roaming the forest, and the wild ; 

My breast her shield in wintry weather — • 
And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd. 

And she would mark the opening skies, ^°° 

I saw no Heaven — but in her eyes. 

Young Love's first lesson is — the heart : 

For 'mid that sunshine, and those 
smiles, 
When, from our little cares apart, 

And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
rd throw me on her throbbing breast, 

And pour my spirit out in tears — 
There was no need to speak the rest — 

No need to quiet any fears 
Of her — who ask'd no reason why, "o 
But turn'd on me her quiet eye ! 
Yet more than worthy of the love 
My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
When, on the mountain peak, aloni, 
Ambition lent it a new tone — 
I had no being — but in thee : 

The world, and all it did contain 
In the earth — the air — the sea — 

Its joy — its little lot of pain 
That was new pleasure — the ideal, ^^o 

Dim vanities of dreams by night — 
And dimmer nothings which were real — 

(Shadows — and a more shadowy light!) 
Parted upon their misty wings. 
And, so, confusedly, became 
Thine image and — a name — a name ! " 
Two separate — yet most intimate things. 



I was ambitious — have you known 

The passion, father? You have not: 
A cottager, I mark'd a throne '3° 

Of half the world as all my own, 

And murmur'd at such lowly lot — 
But, just like any other dream. 

Upon the vapor of the dew 
My own had past, did not the beam 

Of beauty which did while it thro' 
The minute — the hour — -the day — oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 
We walk'd together on the crown 
Of a high mountain which look'd down 
Afar from its proud natural towers Hi 

Of rock and forest, on the hills — 
The dwindled hills ! begirt with bowers 
And shouting with a thousand rills. 

I spoke to her of power and pride, 

But mystically — in such guise 
That she might deem it nought beside 

The moment's converse ; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too carelessly — 

A mingled feeling with my own — iso 
The flush on her bright cheek, to me 

Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be 

Light in the wilderness alone. 

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then 
And donn'd a visionary crown — 
Yet it was not that Fantasy 
Had thrown her mantle over me — 
But that, among the rabble — men, 

Lion ambition is chain'd down — ^^o 
And crouches to a keeper's hand — 
Not so in deserts where the grand— 
The wild — the terrible conspire 
With their own breath to fan his fire. 

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand ! ^ — 

Is she not queen of Earth? her pride 
Above all cities? in her hand 

Their destinies? in all beside 
Of glory which the world hath known 
Stands she not nobly and alone? "70 

Falling — her veriest stepping-stone 
Shall form the pedestal of a throne — 
And who her sovereign? Timour ^ — he 

Whom the astonished people saw 
Striding o'er empires haughtily 

A diadem'd outlaw ! 

^ I believe it was after the battle of Angora 
that Tamerlane made Samarcand his residence. 
It became for a time the seat of learning and 
the arts. (PoE, 1827.) 

^ He was called Timur Bek as well as Tamer- 
lane. (PoE, 1827.) 



?26 



AMERICAN POETRY 



O, human love ! thou spirit given, 
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! 
Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, i8o 

And, failing in thy power to bless, 
But leav'st the heart a v^^ilderness ! 
Idea! w^hich bindest life around 
With music of so strange a sound 
And beauty of so wild a birth — 
Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. 

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could 
see 
No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
His pinions were bent droopingly — 
And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 
'Twas sunset : when the sun will part 
There comes a sullenness of heart '92 

To him who still would look upon 
The glory of the summer sun. 
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist 
So often lovely, and will list 
To the sound of the coming darkness 

(known 
To those whose spirits barken) as one 
Who, in a dream of night, would fly 
But cannot from a danger nigh. 200 

What tho' the moon — the white moon 
Shed all the splendor of her noon, 
Her smile is chilly — and her beam. 
In that time of dreariness, will seem 
(So like you gather in your breath) 
A portrait taken after death. 

And boyhood is a summer sun 
Whose waning is the dreariest one — 
For all we live to know is known 
And all we seek to keep hath flown — 210 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
With the noon-day beauty — which is all. 

I reach'd my home — my home no more — 
For all had flown who made it so. 

I pass'd from out its mossy door. 
And, tho' my tread was soft and low, 

A voice came from the threshold stone 

Of one whom I had earlier known — 
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show 
On beds of fire that burn below, 220 
An humbler heart — a deeper woe. 

Father, I firmly do believe — 
I knoiv — for Death who comes for me 
From regions of the blest afar. 

Where there is nothing to deceive, 
Hath left his iron gate ajar. 
And rays of truth you cannot see 
Are flashing thro' Eternity — 



I do believe that Eblis hath 

A snare in every human path — 230 

Else how, when in the holy grove 

I wandered of the idol, Love, 

Who daily scents his snowy wings 

With incense of burnt offerings 

From the most unpolluted things. 

Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 

Above with trellic'd rays from Heaven 

No mote may shun — no tiniest fly — 

The light'ning of his eagle eye — 

How was it that Ambition crept, 240 

Unseen, amid the revels there, 
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 

In the tangles of Love's very hair? 

In "Tamerlane and Other Poems," 1829. 



TO 

I saw thee on thy bridal day — 

When a burning blush came o'er thee. 

Though happiness around thee lay. 
The world all love before thee : 

And in thine eye a kindling light 

(Whatever it might be) 
Was all on Earth my aching sight 

Of Loveliness could see. 

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame — 
As such it well may pass — 1° 

Though its glow hath raised a fiercer 
flame 
In the breast of him, alas ! 

Who saw thee on that bridal day. 

When that deep blush would come o'er 
thee. 

Though happiness around thee lay. 
The world all love before thee. 

1826. 
In "Tamerlane and Other Poems," 1829. 



A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 

Take this kiss upon the brow ! 

And, in parting from you now, 

Thus much let me avow — 

You are not wrong, who deem 

That my days have been a dream; 

Yet if hope has flown away 

In a night, or in a day. 

In a vision, or in none, 

Is it therefore the less gone? 

All that we see or seem 

Is but a dream within a dream. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



227 



I stand amid the roar 

Of a surf-tormented shore, 

And I hold within my hand 

Grains of the golden sand — 

How few ! yet how they creep 

Through my fingers to the deep, 

While I weep — while I weep ! 

O God! can I not grasp 

Them with a tighter clasp? 20 

O God ! can I not save 

One from the pitiless wave? 

Is all that we see or seem 

But a dream within a dream? 

As "Imitation" in "Tamerlane and 
Other Poems," 1827. 



To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, 
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? 
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her 

car? 
And driven the Hamadryad from the 

wood 10 

To seek a shelter in some happier star? 
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her 

flood. 
The Elfin from the green grass, and from 

me 
The summer dream beneath the tamarind 

tree? 

In "Al Aaraf, Tamerlane and Minor 
Poems," 1829. 



ROMANCE 

Romance, who loves to nod and sing. 

With drowsy head and folded wing, 

Among the green leaves as they shake 

Far down within some shadowy lake, 

To me a painted paroquet 

Hath been — a most familiar bird — 

Taught me my alphabet to say — 

To lisp my very earliest word " 

While in the wild wood I did lie, 

A child — with a most knowing eye. ^° 

Of late, eternal Condor years 

So shake the very Heaven on high 

With tumult as they thunder by, 

I have no time for idle cares 

Through gazing on the unquiet sky. 

And when an hour with calmer wings 

Its down upon my spirit flings — 

That little time with lyre and rhyme 

To while away — forbidden things ! 

My heart would feel to be a crime 20 

Unless it trembled with the strings. 

Preface to "Al Aaraf, Tamerlane and 
Minor Poems," 1829. 



SONNET— TO SCIENCE 

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou 
art! 

Who alterest all things with thy peering 
eyes. 

Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's 
heart. 

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? 

How should he love thee? or how deem 
thee wise. 

Who wouldst not leave him in his wan- 
dering 



TO 

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see 

The wantonest singing birds, 
Are Hps — and all thy melody 

Of lip-begotten words — 

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined 

Then desolately fall, 
O God ! on my funereal mind 

Like starlight on a pall — 

Thy heart — thy heart! — I wake and sigh. 
And sleep to dream till day 10 

Of the truth that gold can never buy — 
Of the baubles that it may. 

In "Al Aaraf, Tamerlane and Minor 
Poems," 1829. 



TO HELEN 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 
Like those Nicean barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece, 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 1° 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand. 

The agate lamp within thy hand! 

Ah, Psyche, Irom the regions which 
Are Holy-Land! 

In "Poems," 1831. 



228 



x\MERICAX rOETRY 



ISRAFEL I 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;" 
None sung so wildly well 
As the angel Israfel. 
And the giddy stars (.so legends tell"* 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 



If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He miglit not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody, 49 

While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre witliin the sky. 

In "Poems." ISol. 



Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamored moon ^^ 

Blushes with love. 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(Witli the rapid Pleiads, even, 

"Which were seven,) 

Pauses in Heaven. 

And they say (tlie starry choir 
And the other listening tilings) 

That IsrafeU's tire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings — •=<* 

The trembling living wire 

Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies tliat angel trod. 

\\'here deep thoughts are^ a dutj- — 
Where Love's a grown-up God — 

Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

\Miich we worship in a star. 

Therefore, thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 3<> 

An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong. 

Best bard, because the wisest ! 
Merrily live, and long! 

The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit — 
Thy grief.' thy joy. thy hate, thy love, 

With the fervor of thy lute — 

Well may the stars be mute! 

Yes. Heaven is thine: but this -t" 

Is a world of sweets and sours; 
Our flowers are merely— flowers. 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is tlie sunshine of ours. 

* And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings 
are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of 
all God's creatures. — Koran. iPce's note, l&ia.) 

Poe added the words "Whose heart-strings are 
a lute" to a phrase quoted by Thomas Moore 
in "Lalla Rookh" from Sale's "Preliminary Dis- 
course" to the Koran, 



THE CITY IX THE SEA 

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne 
In a strange city lying alone 
Far down within the dim West. 
Where the good and the bad and the 

worst and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. 
There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
ResigTiedly beneath the sky '" 

The melancholv waters lie. 



No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently — 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free — 
Up domes — up spires — tip kingly halls — 
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls — 
Up shadowy long- forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers — ^ 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 
So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air. 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks giganticallv down. 



There open fanes and gaping graves 3° 

Yawn level with the luminous waves 

But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol's diamond eye — 

Not the gayly-jewelled dead 

Tempt the waters from their bed; 

For no ripples curl, alas ! 

Along that wilderness of glass — 

No swellings tell that winds may be 

Upon some far-off happier sea — 

No heavings hint that winds have been 4° 

On seas less hideously serene. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



229 



But lo, a stir in the air! 
The wave — there is a movement there! 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 
In sh'ghtly sinking, the dull tide — 
As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy Heaven. 
The waves have now a redder glow— 
The hours are breathing faint and low — 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 5° 
Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
Shall do it reverence. 

As "The Doomed City" in "Poems," 1831. 



THE SLEEPER 

At midnight, in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim. 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain top. 
Steals drowsily and musically 
Into the universal valley. 
The rosemary nods upon the grave; 
The lily lolls upon the wave; lo 

Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
The ruin moulders into rest; 
Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 
A conscious slumber seems to take. 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All Beauty sleeps !— and lo ! where lies 
Irene, with her Destinies! 

Oh, lady bright! can it be right — 

This window open to the night? 

The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 20 

Laughingly through the lattice drop — 

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout. 

Flit through thy chamber in and out. 

And wave the curtain canopy 

So fitfully — so fearfully — 

Above the closed and fringed lid 

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid. 

That, o'er the floor and dov/n the wall. 

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall ! 

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? 30 

why and what art thou dreaming here? 

Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 

A wonder to these garden trees ! 

Strange is thy pallor ! strange thy dress ! 

Strange, above all, thy length of tr^s. 

And this all solemn silentness ! 

The lady sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, 
Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep! 



This chamber changed for one more holy, 
This bed for one more melancholy, 41 
I pray to God that she may lie 
Forever with unopened eye. 
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by ! 

My love, she sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, 
As it is lasting, so be deep! 
Soft may the worms about her creep ! 
Far in the forest, dim and old, 
For her may some tall vault unfold — 
Some vault that oft hath flung its black 
And winged panels fluttering back, 51 

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, 
Of her grand family, funerals — 
Some sepulchre, rem'ote, alone. 
Against whose portal she hath thrown. 
In childhood, many an idle stone — 
Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
She ne'er shall force an echo more. 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin ! 
It was the dead who groaned within. 60 

As "Irene" in "Poems," 1831. 



LENORE I 

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit 

flown forever ! 
Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on 

the Stygian river; 
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — 

weep now or never more ! 
See ! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies 

thy love, Lenore ! 
Come ! let the burial rite be read — the 

funeral song be sung! — 
An anthem for the queenliest dead that 

ever died so young — 
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that 

she died so young. 

"Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth 

and hated her for her pride. 
And when she fell in feeble health, ye 

blessed her — that she died ! 
How shall the ritual, then, be read? — 

the requiem how be sung 10 

By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, 

the slanderous tongue 
That did to death the innocence that died, 

and died so young?" 

^ The poem is a dialogue between the relatives 
of the dead Lenore and her lover, Guy De 
Vere. 

The poem appeared in 1843 in a short line 
version. A comparison of the two forms is 
interesting. The general opinion seems to be 
that the earlier is the better version. 



230 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Peccavimus; but rave not thus ! and let a 

Sabbath song 
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may 

feel no wrong ! 
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," 

with Hope, that flew beside, 
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that 

should have been thy bride— 
For her, the fair and debonair, that now 

so lowly lies, 
The life upon her yellow hair but not 

within her eyes — 
The life still there, upon her hair — the 

death upon her eyes. 

"Avaunt ! to-night my heart is light. No 

dirge will I upraise. 20 

But waft the angel on her flight with a 

paean of old days ! 
Let no bell toll — lest her sweet soul, 

amid its hallowed mirth, 
, Should catch the note, as it doth float up 

from the damned Earth. 
To friends above, from fiends below, the 

indignant ghost is riven — 
From Hell unto a high estate far up 

within the Heaven — 
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, 

beside the King of Heaven." 

183L As "A Psean" in "Poems," 183L 



THE VALLEY OF UNREST 

Once it smiled a silent dell 

Where the people did not dwell; 

They had gone unto the wars. 

Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 

Nightly, from their azure towers. 

To keep watch above the flowers, 

In the midst of which all day 

The red sun-light lazily lay. 

Now each visitor shall confess 

The sad valley's restlessness. 10 

Nothing there is motionless — 

Nothing save the airs that brood 

Over the magic solitude. 

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 

That palpitate like the chill seas 

Around the misty Hebrides ! 

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 

Uneasily, from morn till even, 

Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye — 

Over the lilies there that wave 

And weep above a nameless grave ! 



They wave : — from out their fragrant tops 
Eternal dews come down in drops. 
They weep : — from ofif their delicate stems 
Perennial tears descend in gems. 

As "The Valley Nis," in "Poems," 1831. 



TO ONE IN PARADISE I 

Thou wast all that to me, love, 
For which my soul did pine — 

A green isle in the sea, love, 
A fountain and a shrine. 

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flow- 
ers, 
And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah, dream too bright to last ! 

Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise 
But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 1° 
"On ! on !" — but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast ! 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of Life is o'er! 

"No more — no more — no more — " 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar ! 20 

And all my days are trances. 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy gray eye glances, 
And where thy footstep gleams — 
In what ethereal dances, 

By what eternal streams. 

Godey's Lady's Book, Jan., 1831. 



THE COLISEUM 

Type of the antique Rome ! Rich reli- 
quary 
Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
By buried centuries of pomp and power! 
At length — at length — after so many days 
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, 
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in 

thee lie,) 
I kne&l, an altered and an humble man. 
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and 
glory ! 

^ From the tale now called "The Assignation." 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



231 



Vastness ! and Age ! and Memories of 
Eld! 10 

Silence ! and Desolation ! and dim Night ! 

I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength — 

O spells more sure than e'er Judsean king 

Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 

O charms more potent than the rapt 
Chaldee 

Ever drew down from out the quiet stars ! 

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! 

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in 
gold, 

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 

Here, where the dames of Rome their 
gilded hair 20 

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed 
and thistle ! 

Here, where on golden throne the mon- 
arch lolled. 

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home. 

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon. 

The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 



But stay ! these walls — these ivy-clad ar- 
cades — 

These mouldering plinths — these sad and 
blackened shafts — 

These vague entablatures — this crumbling 
frieze — 

These shattered cornices — this wreck — 
this ruin — 

These stones — alas ! these gray stones — 
are they all— 3° 

All of the famed, and the colossal left 

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? 



HYMN 

At morn — at noon — at twilight dim — 
Maria ! thou hast heard my hymn ! 
In joy -and woe — in good and ill — 
Mother of God, be with me still ! 
When the Hours flew brightly by. 
And not a cloud obscured the sky, 
My soul, lest it should truant be. 
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee; 
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast 
Darkly my Present and my Past, 1° 

Let my Future radiant shine 
With sweet hopes of thee and thine ! 

Southern Literary Messenger, 1835. 



TO F 1 

Beloved ! amid the earnest woes 
That crowd around my earthly path — 

(Drear path, alas! where grows 

Not even one lonely rose) — 
My soul at least a solace hath 

In dreams of thee, and therein knows 

An Eden of bland repose. 

And thus thy memory is to me 
Like some enchanted far-oflf isle 

In some tumultuous sea — ^° 

Some ocean throbbing far and free 
With storms — but where meanwhile 

Serenest skies continually 
Just o'er that one bright island smile. 

Southern Literary Messenger, July, 1835. 



"Not all" — the Echoes answer me — "not 

all! 
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever 
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the 

wise. 
As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
We rule the hearts of mightiest men — we 

rule 
With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
We are not impotent — we pallid stones. 
Not all our power is gone — not all our 

fame — 4° 

Not all the magic of our high renown — 
Not all the wonder that encircles us— 
Not all the mysteries that in us lie — 
Not all the memories that hang upon 
And cling around about us as a garment, 
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." 

The Baltimore Saturday Visitor, 1833. 



SONNET TO ZANTE 

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all 
flowers, 
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost 
take ! 
How many memories of what radiant 
hours 
At sight of thee and thine at once 
awake ! 
How many scenes of what departed bliss ! 
How many thoughts of what entombed 
hopes ! 
How many visions of a maiden that is 
No more — no more upon thy verdant 
slopes ! 

^ In 1835 the title of this poem was "To 
Mary," in 1842 "To One Departed," in 1845 
"To F ." 



232 



AMERICAN POETRY 



N'o more! alas, that magical sad sound 
Transforming all! Thy charms shall 
please no more — lo 

Thy memor}^ no more! Accursed ground 
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled 
shore, 
O hyacinthine isle ! O purple Zante ! 
"Isola d'oro ! Fior di Levante !" 

Southern Literary Messenger, Jan., 1837. 



THE HAUNTED PALACE i 

In the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion — - 

It stood there ! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair ! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow, ^° 

(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago,) 
And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day. 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

Through two luminous windows, saw- 
Spirits moving musically. 

To a lute's well-tuned law, -o 

Round about a throne where, sitting, 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door. 
Through which came flowing, flowing, 
flowing 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, ' 3^ 

In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
Assailed the monarch's high estate. 

(Ah, let us mourn ! — for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 

*_From The Fall of the House of Usher, in 
which tale it is sung by Usher himself. 



I 



And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 4o 

And travellers, now, within that valley. 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms, that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody, 
While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

Baltimore Mnsenni, April, 1839. 

THE CONQUEROR WORM 

Lo ! 'tis a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years ! 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 

In veils, and drowned in tears, 
Sit in a theatre, to see 

A plaA^ of hopes and fears. 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high. 

Mutter and mumble low, ^° 

And hither and thither fly — 

Mere puppets they, wdio come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their Condor wings 

Invisible Woe ! 

That motley drama — oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot ! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore. 

By a crowd that seize it not, ^ 

Through a circle that ever returneth in 

To the self-same spot. 
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see, amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude ! 
A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude ! 
It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal 
pangs 

The inimes become its food, 3o 

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out — out are the lights — out all ! 

And, over each quivering form. 
The curtain, a funeral pall. 

Comes down with the rush of a storm, 



I 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



233 



While the angels, all pallid and wan, 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, "Man," 4° 

And its hero the Conqueror Worm. 

Graham's Magazine, Jan., 1843. 



Never its mysteries are exposed 

To the weak human eye unclosed ; 

So wills its King, who hath forbid 

The uplifting of the fringed lid; 

And thus the sad Soul that here passes 

Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 



DREAM-LAND 

By a route obscure and lonely, 
Haunted by ill angels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have reached these lands but newly 
From an ultimate dim Thule — 
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sub- 
lime. 
Out of Space— out of Time. 

Bottomless vales and boundless floods. 
And chasms, and caves and Titan woods. 
With forms that no man can discover " 
For the tears that drip all over; 
Mountains toppling evermore 
Into seas without a shore; 
Seas that restlessly aspire, 
Surging, unto skies of fire; 
Lakes that endlessly outspread 
Their lone waters — lone and dead, — 
Their still waters — still and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily. 2° 

By the lakes that thus outspread 
Their lone waters, lone and dead, — 
Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily, — 
By the mountains — near the river 
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, — 
By the gray woods, — by the swamp 
Where the toad and the newt encamp,- 
By the dismal tarns and pools 

Where dwell the Ghouls, — 3° 

By each spot the most unholy — 
In each nook most melancholy, — 
There the traveller meets, aghast. 
Sheeted Memories of the Past — 
Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
As they pass the wanderer by — 
White-robed forms of friends long given. 
In agony, to the Earth — and Heaven. 

For the heart whose woes are legion 
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region — ■ 4° 

For the spirit that walks in shadow 
. 'Tis — oh 'tis an Eldorado ! 
But the traveller, travelling through it, 
May not — dare not openly view it; 



By a route obscure and lonely, 5i 

Haunted by ill angels only. 
Where an Eidolon, named Night^ 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have wandered home but newly 
From this ultimate dim Thule. 

Graham's Magazine, June, 1844. 



THE RAVEN I 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I 

pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume 

of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 

there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping 

at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping 

at my chamber door — 
Only this and nothing more." 



Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the 
bleak December ; 

And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I 
had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sor- 
row for the lost Lenore — ^° 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore — 
Nameless here for evermore. 



And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic ter- 
rors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber door — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber door ; — 
This it is and nothing more." 

^ In his Philosophy of Composition Poe gives 
his own account of the writing of "The Raven." 



234 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Presently my soul grew stronger; hesi- 
tating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your for- 
giveness I implore; 20 

But the fact is I was napping, and so 
gently you came rapping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping 
at my chamber door. 

That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here 
I opened wide the door; 
Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I 

stood there wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 

ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the 

stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the 

whispered word, "Lenore !" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured 

back the word "Lenore !" 
Merely this and nothing more. 3° 

Back into the chamber turning, all my 

soul within me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat 

louder than before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something 

at my window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this 

mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this 

mystery explore; — 
'Tis the wind and nothing more !" 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 

many a flirt and flutter 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the 

saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a 

minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched 

above my chamber door — 40 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above 

my chamber door — 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 

fancy into smiling. 
By the grave and stern decorum of the 

countenance it wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 

thou," I said, "art sure no craven. 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wander- 
ing from the Nightly shore- 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 
Night's Plutonian shore !" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 



Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to 
hear discourse so plainly. 

Though its answer little meaning — little 
relevancy bore ; 5° 

For we cannot help agreeing that no liv- 
ing human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird 
above his chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 
above his chamber door. 
With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid 

bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one 

word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered — not a 

feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other 

friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my 

hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said "Nevermore." ^ 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply 
so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its 
only stock and store 

Caught from some unhappy master whom 
unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster till his 
songs one burden bore — 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melan- 
choly burden bore 
Of 'Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy 

into smihng. 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 

front of bird, and bust and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook 

myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- 

mous bird of yore — 7° 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt 

and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no 

syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned 

into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my 

head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the 

lamp-light gloated o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining with the 

lamp-light gloating o'er, 
She shall press, ah, nevermore! 






EDGAR ALLAN POE 



235 



Then, methought, the air grew denser, 

perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 

tinkled on the tufted floor. 80 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee 

— by these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy 

memories of Lenore; 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and 

forget this lost Lenore !" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet 
still, if bird or devil ! — 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tem- 
pest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert 
land enchanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me 
truly, I implore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell 
me — tell me, I implore !" ■ 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 90 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — 

prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by 

that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 

the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 

angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 

the angels name Lenore." 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird 

or fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting — 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the 

Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that 

lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the 

bust above my door ! ^°° 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and 

take thy form from off my door \" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sit- 
ting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above 
my chamber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a 
demon's that is dreaming. 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming 
throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that 
lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted — nevermore! 

1842-44? Evening Mirror, Jan. 1845. 



ULALUME I 

The skies they were ashen and sober; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere — 

The leaves they were withering and 
sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 
Of my most immemorial year; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir — 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, , 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of 
Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic, 1° 
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was vol- 
canic 
As the scoriae rivers that roll — 
As the lavas that restlessly roll 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
In the ultimate climes of the pole — 

That groan as they roll down Mount 
Yaanek 
In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 20 
But our thoughts they were palsied and 

sere — 
Our memories were treacherous and 
sere — 
For we knew not the month was October, 
And we marked not the night of the 

year — 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber — 
(Though once we had journeyed down 
here) — 
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
Nor the ghoul - haunted woodland of 
Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent 3° 
And star-dials pointed to morn — 
As the star-dials hinted of morn — 

At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born. 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn — 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 
Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said — ^"She is warmer than Dian : 
She rolls through an ether of sighs — 
She revels in a region of sighs : 41 

^ Poe's wife Virginia died in January, 1847. 
"Ulalume" was published in December of that 

year. 



236 



AMERICAN POETRY 



She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
These cheeks, where the worm never 
dies 

And has come past the stars of the Lion 
To point us the path to the skies — 
To the Lethean peace of the skies — 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes — 

Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes." 5° 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
Said — "Sadly this star I mistrust — 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust :— 

Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 
Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — for we must." 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
Wings until they trailed in the dust — 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust — 59 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — "This is nothing but dreaming : 
Let us on by this tremulous light ! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 

Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming 
With Hope and in Beauty to-night: — 
See ! — it flickers up the sky through 
the night ! 

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming. 
And be sure it will lead us aright — 

We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 7° 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through 
the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
And tempted her out of her gloom — 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista. 
But were stopped by the door of a 

tomb — 
By the door of a legended tomb; 

And I said — "What is within, sweet sister. 
On the door of this legended tomb?" 
She replied — "Ulalume — Ulalume — So 
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume !" 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and 

sere — 
As the leaves that were withering and 

sere, 
And I cried — "It was surely October 
On this very night of last year . 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down 

here — 
That I brought a dread burden down 

here — 
On this night of all nights in the year, 



Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Au- 

ber — 91 

This misty mid region of Weir — 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of 

Auber, 

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 

American Whig Review, Dec, 1847. 



THE BELLS i 



Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody 
foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, Jo 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
__ Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the 
bells. 



Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony 
foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! — 
From the molten-golden notes, -° 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
gloats 

On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells ! 

How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! — how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 3° 

^ Mrs. M. A. Shew suggested the subject and 
some of the lines of the original version of this 
poem, which was but seventeen lines long. An 
eighteenth line was added and the poem sub- 
mitted by Poe to the Union Magacine in the 
autumn of 1848. It was not published until 
a year later, _ and then in an enlarged and re- 
vised form similar to the present version. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



237 



To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
bells ! 

Ill 
Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now their turbu- 
lency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, 41 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of 

the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit, or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon, so 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows, 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 6° 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling, 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 
of the bells — 

Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamor and the clanging of the 
bells ! 

IV 

Hear the tolling of the bells—' 70 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their 
tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 



Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 80 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls : — 
And their king it is who tolls: — 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 90 

Rolls 
A psean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the psean of the bells! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the psean of the bells: — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time 100 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the sobbing of the bells : — 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells:— 

To the tolling of the bells — "o 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the moaning and the groaning of the 

bells. 
1848-1849. 
Sartain's Union Magazine, Nov., 1849. 



TO MY MOTHER 1 

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above. 
The angels, whispering to one another, 
Can find, among their burning terms of 

love, 
None so devotional as that of "Mother," 
Therefore by that dear name I long have 

called you— 
You who are more than mother unto me, 
Andfill my heart of hearts, where Death 

installed you. 
In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
My mother — my own mother, who died 

early, 

* The sonnet is written to Mrs. Clemm, the 
rnother of Poe's wife. 



238 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Was hut the mother of myself; but you Jo 
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly. 
And thus are dearer than the mother I 

knew 
By that infinity with which my wife 
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. 

Flag of Our Union, 1849. 



ANNABEL LEE 

It was many and many a year ago 

In a kingdom by the sea 
That a maiden there lived whom you may 
know 
By the name of Annabel Lee: 
And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

/ was a child and slic was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more 
than love — 
I and my Annabel Lee — ^° 

With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

Aly beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. ^ 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men 
know. 
In this kingdom by the sea") 
That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night. 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than 
the love 
Of those who were older than we — 
Of manv far wiser than we — 



And neither the angels in heaven above, 3fl 
Nor the demons down under the sea. 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 

For the moon never beams, without bring- 
ing me dreams 
Of tlie beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by 

the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and 
my bride. 
In the sepulchre there by the sea — 40 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

1849. Nczi' York Tribune. Oct. 9, 1849. 



ELDORADO 

Gaily bedight, 

A gallant knight. 
In sunshine and in shadow, 

Had journeyed long, 

Singing a song. 
In search of Eldorado. 

But he grew old — 

This knight so bold — 
And o'er his heart a shadow 

Fell as he found 10 

No spot of ground 
That looked like Eldorado. 

And, as his strength 

Failed him at length. 
He met a pilgrim shadow — • 

"Shadow," said he, 

"\Miere can it be — 
This land of Eldorado?" 

"Over the Mountains 
Of the j\Ioon, 20 

Down the ^'alley of the Shadow, 
Ride, boldly ride," 
The shade replied, — 
"If you seek for Eldorado." 

''Griswold's Poets and Poetry of 
America," 1850. 



I 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
(1807-1892) 



TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON 

Champion of those who groan beneath 

Oppression's iron hand : 
In view of penury, hate, and death, 

I see thee fearless stand. 
Still bearing up thy lofty brow. 

In the steadfast strength of truth, 
In manhood sealing well the vow 

And promise of thy youth. 



Go on, for thou hast chosen well; 

On in the strength of God! lo 

Long as one human heart shall swell 

Beneath the tyrant's rod. 
Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, 

As thou hast ever spoken, 
Until the dead in sin shall hear, 

The fetter's link be broken ! 



I love thee with a brother's love, 

I feel my pulses thrill, 
To mark thy spirit soar above 

The cloud of human ill. 20 

My heart hath leaped to answer thine, 

And echo back thy words. 
As leaps the warrior's at the shine 

And flash of kindred swords! 

They tell me thou art rash and vain, 

A searcher after fame ; 
That thou art striving but to gain 

A long-enduring name ; 
That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand 

And steeled the Afric's heart, 3° 

To shake aloft his vengeful brand. 

And rend his chain apart. 



Have I not known thee well, and read 

Thy mighty purpose long? 
And watched the trials which have made 

Thy human spirit strong? 
And shall the slanderer's demon breath 

Avail with one like me. 
To dim the sunshine of my faith 

And earnest trust in thee? 4° 



Go on, the dagger's point may glare 

Amid thy pathway's gloom; 
The fate which sternly threatens there 

Is glorious martyrdom ! 
Then onward with a martyr's zeal; 

And wait thy sure reward 
When man to man no more shall kneel, 

And God alone be Lord ! 

1832. 

Read at the convention in Philadelphia which 
founded the American Anti-Slavery Society in 
December, 1833. Whittier was a delegate from 
Massachusetts. 

EXPOSTULATION 1 

Our fellow-countrymen in chains ! 

Slaves, in a land of light and law ! 
Slaves, crouching on the very plains 

Where rolled the storm of Freedom's 
war! 
A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood, 

A wail where Camden's martyrs fell, 
By every shrine of patriot blood. 

From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well ! 

By storied hill and hallowed grot, 

By mossy wood and marshy glen, 10 
Whence rang of old the rifle-shot, 

And hurrying shout of Marion's men ! 
The groan of breaking hearts is there, 

The falling lash, the fetter's clank ! 
Slaves, slaves are breathing in that air 

Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank ! 

^ Dr. Charles Follen, a German patriot, who 
had corne to America for the freedom which 
was denied him in his native land, allied him- 
self with the abolitionists, and at a convention 
of delegates from all the anti-slavery organiza- 
tions in New England, held at Boston in May, 
1834, was chairman of a committee to prepare 
an address to the people of New England. 
Toward the close of the address occurred the 
passage which suggested these lines: — 

"The despotism which our fathers could not 
bear in their native country is expiring, and the 
sword of justice in her reformed hands has 
applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall 
the United States — the free United States, which 
could not bear the bonds of a king — cradle the 
bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a 
Republic be less free than a Monarchy? Shall 
we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, 
be less energetic in righteousness than a king- 
dom in its age?" (Author's Note.) 



239 



240 



AMERICAN POETRY 



What ho ! our countrymen in chains ! 

The whip on woman's shrinking flesh ! 
Our soil yet reddening with the stains 

Caught from her scourging, warm and 

fresh ! 20 

What ! mothers from their children riven ! 

What ! God's own image bought and 
sold! 
Americans to market driven, 

And bartered as the brute for gold ! 

Speak ! shall their agony of prayer 

Come thrilling to our hearts in vain? 
To us whose fathers scorned to bear 

The paltry menace of a chain; 
To us, whose boast is loud and long, 

Of holy Liberty and Light; 30 

Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong 

Plead vainly for their plundered Right? 

What ! shall we send, with lavish breath, 

Our sympathies across the wave, 
Where Manhood, on the field of death, 

Strikes for his freedom or a grave? 
Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung 

For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning. 
And millions hail with pen and tongue 

Our light on all her altars burning? 40 

Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, 

By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's 
wall, 
And Poland, gasping on her lance, 

The impulse of our cheering call? 
And shall the slave, beneath our eye, 

Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain? 
And toss his fettered arms on high. 

And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain? 

Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be 

A refuge for the stricken slave? 5° 

And shall the Russian serf go free 

By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave? 
And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane 

Relax the iron hand of pride. 
And bid his bondmen cast the chain 

From fettered soul and limb aside? 

Shall every flap of England's flag 

Proclaim that all around are free. 
From farthest Ind to each blue crag 

That beetles o'er the Western Sea? 60 
And shall we scoff at Europe's kings, 

When Freedom's fire is dim with us, 
And round our country's altar clings 

The damning shade of Slavery's curse? 



Go, let us ask of Constantine 

To loose his grasp on Poland's throat; 
And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line 

To spare the strugghng Suliote; 
Will not the scorching answer come 

From turbaned Turk, and scornful 
Russ : 70 

"Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, 

Then turn and ask the like of us!" 

Just God ! and shall we calmly rest, 

The Christian's scorn, the heathen's 
mirth. 
Content to live the lingering jest 

And by-word of a mocking Earth-? 
Shall our own glorious land retain 

That curse which Europe scorns to 
bear? 
Shall our own brethren drag the chain. 79 

Which not even Russia's menials wear? 
Up, then, in Freedom's manly part, 

From graybeard eld to fiery youth-, 
And on the nation's naked heart 

Scatter the living coals of Truth ! 
Up ! while ye slumber, deeper yet 

The shadow of our fame is growing,! 
Up ! while ye pause, our sun may set - 

In blood around our altars flowing! m 

Oh ! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth. 

The gathered wrath of God and man, 90 
Like that which wasted Egypt's earth, 

When hail and fire above it ran. 
Hear ye no warnings in the air? 

Feel ye no earthquake underneath? 
Up, up ! why will ye slumber where 

The sleeper only wakes in death? 

Rise now for Freedom ! not in strife 

Like that your sterner fathers saw, 
The awful waste of human life. 

The glory and the guilt of war: 100 
But break the chain, the yoke remove, 

And smite to earth Oppression's rod. 
With those mild arms of Truth and Love, 

Made mighty through the living God! 

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink. 

And leave no traces where it stood; 
Nor .longer let its idol drink 

His daily cup of human blood; 
But rear another altar there, 

To Truth and Love and Mercy given, "" 
And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's 
prayer, 

Shall call an answer down from Heav- 
en! 



1834. 



The Liberator, Sept. 13, 1834. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



241 



PENTUCKET i 

How sweetly on the wood-girt town 
The mellow light of sunset shone ! 
Each small, bright lake, whose waters still 
Mirror the forest and the hill, 
Reflected from its waveless breast 
The beauty of a cloudless west, 
Glorious as if a glimpse were given 
Within the western gates of heaven, 
Left, by the spirit of the star 
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar! lo 

Beside the river's tranquil flood 
The dark and low-walled dwellings stood. 
Where many a rood of open land 
Stretched up and down on either hand, 
With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
The thick and blackened stumps betv/een. 
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, 
The wild, untravelled forest spread, 
Back to those mountains, white and cold. 
Of which the Indian trapper told, 20 

Upon whose summits never yet 
Was mortal foot in safety set. 

Quiet and calm without fear 
Of danger darkly lurking near. 
The weary laborer left his plough, 
The milkmaid carolled by her cow ; 
From cottage door and household hearth 
Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. 
At length the murmur died away, 
. And silence on that village lay. 30 

— So slept Pompeii, tower and hall. 
Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all. 
Undreaming of the fiery fate 
Which made its dwellings desolate ! 

Hours passed away. By moonlight sped 
The Merrimac along his bed. 
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, 

* The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, 
called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly 
seventeen years a frontier town, and during 
thirty years endured all the horrors of savage 
warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of 
French and Indians, under the command of De 
I Chaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the infamous 
and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack 
upon the village, which at that time contained 
only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were 
massacred, and a still larger number made pris- 
oners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, and 
among them Hertel de Rouville. The minister 
of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a 
shot through his own door. In a paper entitled 
"The Border War of 1708," published in my 
collection of Recreations and Miscellanies, I 
have given a prose narrative of the surprise of 
Haverhill. {Author's Note.) 



Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, 
As the hushed grouping of a dream. 40 
Yet on the still aix crept a sound, 
No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound, 
Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing, 
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. 

Was that the tread of many feet, 
Which downward from the hillside beat? 
What forms were those which darkly 

stood 
Just on the margin of the wood? — 
Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, 
Or paling rude, or leafless limb? 50 

No, — through the trees fierce eyeballs 

glowed. 
Dark human forms in moonshine showed, 
Wild from their native wilderness. 
With painted limbs and battle-dress ! 

A yell the dead might wake to hear 
Swelled the night air, far and clear; 
Then smote the Indian tomahawk 
On crashing door and shattering lock; 
Then rang the rifle-shot, and then 
The shrill death-scream of stricken men, — 
Sank the red axe in woman's brain, 61 
And childhood's cry arose in vain. 
Bursting through roof and window came, 
Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame, 
And blended fire and moonlight glared 
On still dead' men and scalp-knives bared. 

The rnorning sun looked brightly through 
The river willows, wet with dew. 
No sound of combat filled the air. 
No shout was heard, nor gunshot there; 
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 7i 
From mouldering ruins slowly broke; 
And on the greensward many a stain, 
And, here and there, the mangled slain, 
Told how that midnight bolt had sped 
Pentucket, on thy fated head! 

Even now the villager can tell 
Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, 
Still show the door of wasting oak, 
Through which the fatal death-shot broke. 
And point the curious stranger where 81 
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare; 
Whose hideous head, in death still feared, 
Bore not a trace of hair nor beard; 
And still, within the churchyard ground, 
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, 
Whose grass-grown surface overlies 
The victims of that sacrifice. 

1838. 



242 



AMERICAN POETRY 



MEMORIES 

A beautiful and happj' girl, 

With step as light as summer air. 
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, 
Shadowed by many a careless curl 

Of unconfined and flowing hair; 
A seeming child in everything, 

Save thoughtful brow and ripening 
charms. 
As Nature wears the smile of Spring 

When sinking into Summer's arms. 

A mind rejoicing in the light i" 

Which melted through its graceful 
bower, 
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, 
And stainless in its holy white, 

Unfolding like a morning flower: 
A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, 

With every breath of feeling woke. 
And, even when the tongue was mute. 

From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening 
chain 

Of memory, at the thought of thee !_ 20 
Old hopes which long in dust have lain. 
Old dreams, come thronging back again. 

And boyhood lives again in me; 
I feel its glow upon my cheek. 

Its fulness of the heart is mine. 
As when I leaned to hear thee speak, 

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 

I hear again thy low replies, 

I feel thy arm within my own, 
And timidly again uprise 3° 

The fringed lids of hazel eyes. 

With soft brown tresses overblown. 
Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves. 

Of moonlit wave and willowy way. 
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves, 

And smiles and tones more dear than 
they! 

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled 

My picture of thy youth to see, 
When, half a woman, half a child. 
Thy very artlessness beguiled, 40 

And folly's self seemed wise in thee; 
I too can smile, when o'er that hour 

The lights of memory backward stream. 
Yet feel the while that manhood's power 

Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 

Years have passed on, and left their trace. 

Of graver care and deeper thought; 
And unto me the calm, cold face 
Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
" Of woman's pensive beauty brought, so 



More wide, perchance, for blame than 
praise. 
The school - boy's humble name has 
flown ; 
Thine, in the green and quiet ways 
Of unobtrusive goodness known. 

And wider yet in thought and deed 

Diverge our pathways, one in youth ; 
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 
While answers to my spirit's need 

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. 
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, ^ 

And holy day, and solemn psalm; 
For me, the silent reverence where 

My brethren gather, slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress Time has worn not out. 
And something of myself in thee, 
A shadow from the past, I see, 

Lingering, even yet, thy way about; 
Not wholly can the heart unlearn 

That lesson of its better hours, 7° 

Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn 

To common dust that path of flowers. 

Thus, while at times before our eyes 

The shadows melt, and fall apart, 
And, smiling through them, round us lies 
The warm light of our morning skies, — 

The Indian Summer of the heart ! 
In secret sympathies of rhind, 1 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 80 

Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 



1841. 



1843. 



HAMPTON BEACH 



The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 

Where, miles away. 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light, 
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of 
sandy gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the Sea ! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree. 
Still as a picture, clear and free, 
With varying outline mark the coast for 
miles around. ^° 

On — on — we tread with loose - flung 
rein 
Our seaward way. 

Through dark-green fields and blos- 
soming grain, 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



243 



Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane, 
And bends above our heads the flowering 
locust spray. 

Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 

Comes this fresh breeze, 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 
While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life, the healing of 
the seas ! 20 

Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ankles greenly round 
With long and tangled moss, and weeds 
with cool spray wet. 

Good-by to Pain and Care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day : 
Here where these sunny waters break. 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary 
thoughts away. 3° 

I draw a freer breath, I seem 

Like all I see — 
Waves in the sun, the white-winged 

gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam. 
And far-off sails which flit before the 
southwind free. 

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, 

The soul may know 
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 
Nor sink the weight of mystery under. 
But with the upward rise, and with the 
vastness grow. 40 

And all we shrink from now may seem 

No new revealing; 
Familiar as our childhood's stream. 
Or pleasant memory of a dream 
The loved and cherished Past upon the 
new life stealing. 

Serene and mild the untried light 

May have its dawning; 
And, as in summer's northern night 
The evening and the dawn unite. 
The sunset hues of Time blend with the 
soul's new morning. 50 

I sit alone; in foam and spray 

Wave after wave 
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and 

gray, 
Shoulder the broken tide away, 
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through 
mossy cleft and cave. 



What heed I of the dusty land 

And noisy town? 
I see the mighty deep expand 
From its white Hne of glimmering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer 
waves shuts down ! ^ 

In listless quietude of mind, 

I yield to all 
The change of cloud and wave and 

wind; 
And passive on the flood reclined, 
I wander with the waves, and with them 
rise and fall. 

But look, thou dreamer ! wave and 
shore 

In shadow lie; 
The night-wind warns me back once 

more 
To where my native hill-tops o'er, 
Bends like an arch of fire the glowing 
sunset sky. 7° 

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, fare- 
well ! 

I bear with me 
No token stone nor glittering shell. 
But long and oft shall Memory tell 
Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing 
by the Sea. 

1843. 



MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA 1 

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, 
upon its Southern way. 

Bears greeting to Virginia from Massa- 
chusetts Bay : 

No word of haughty challenging, nor 
battle bugle's peal. 

Nor steady tread of marching files, nor 
clang of horsemen's steel, 

* Written on reading an account of the pro- 
ceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, Va., in ref- 
erence to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive 
slave, who was seized in Boston without warrant 
at the request of James B. Grey, of Norfolk, 
claiming to be his master. The case caused great 
excitement North and South, and led to the 
presentation of a petition to Congress, signed by 
more than fifty thousand citizens of Massa- 
chusetts, calling for such laws and proposed 
amendments to the Constitution as should re- 
lieve the Commonwealth from all further par- 
ticipation in the crime of oppression. George 
Latimer himself was finally given free papers 
for the sum of four hundred dollars. (.Author's 
Note.) 



244 



AMERICAN POETRY 



I 



No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along 

our highways go; 
Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies 

the snow; 
And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon 

their errands far, 
A thousand sails of commerce swell, but 

none are spread for war. 

We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy stormy 

words and high 
Swell harshly on the Southern winds 

which melt along our sky; lo 

Yet not one brown, hard hand foregoes 

its honest labor here, 
No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends 

his axe in fear. 

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs 

along St. George's bank; 
Cold on the shores of Labrador the fog 

lies white and dank; 
Through storm, and wave, and blinding 

mist, stout are the hearts which man 
The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the 

seaboats of Cape Ann. 

The cold north light and wintry sun glare 

on their icy forms. 
Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or 

wrestling with the storms ; 
Free as the winds they drive before, rough 

as the waves they roam. 
They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat 

against their rocky home. 20 

What means the Old Dominion? Hath 

she forgot the day 
When o'er her conquered valleys swept 

the Briton's steel array? 
How, side by side wtih sons of hers, the 

Massachusetts men 
Encountered^Tarleton's charge of fire, and 

stout Co'rnwallis, then? 

Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer 

to the call 
Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out 

from Faneuil Hall? 
When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came 

pulsing on each breath 
Of Northern winds the thrilling sounds 

of "Liberty or Death !" 

What asks the Old Dominion? If now 

her sons have proved 

False to their fathers' memory, false to 

the faith they loved; 3° 



If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great 

charter spurn. 
Must we of Massachusetts from truth 

and duty turn? 

We hunt your bondmen, flying from Sla- 
very's hateful hell; 

Our voices, at your bidding, take up the 
bloodhound's yell; 

We gather, at your summons, above our 
fathers' graves, 

From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear 
your wretched slaves ! 

Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massa- 
chusetts bow; 

The spirit of her early time Is with her 
even now ; 

Dream not because her Pilgrim blood 
moves slow and calm and cool. 

She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a 
sister's slave and tool ! 40 

All that a sister State should do, all that 
a free State may, 

Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in 
our early day; 

But that one dark loathsome burden ye 
must stagger with alone, 

And reap the bitter harvest which ye your- 
selves have sown ! 

Hold, while ye may, your struggling 

slaves, and burden God's free air 
With woman's shriek beneath the lash, 

and manhood's wild despair; 
Cling closer to the "cleaving curse" that 

writes upon your plains 
The blasting of Almighty wrath against a 

land of chains. 

Still shame your gallant ancestry, the 

cavaliers of old. 
By watching round the shambles where 

human flesh is sold; so 

Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count 

his market value, when 
The maddened mother's cry of woe shall 

pierce the slaver's den ! 

Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the 

Virginia name ; 
Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with 

rankest weeds of shame; 
Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair 

universe; 
We wash our hands forever of your sin 

and shame and curse. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



245 



A voice from lips whereon the coal from 
Freedom's shrine hath been, 

Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of 
Berkshire's mountain men : 

The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly 
lingering still 

In all our sunny valleys, on every wind- 
swept hill. ^ 

And when the prowling man-thief came 

hunting for his prey 
Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's 

shaft of gray. 
How, through the free lips of the son, the 

father's warning spoke; 
How, from its bonds of trade and sect, 

the Pilgrim city broke ! 

A hundred thousand right arms were 

lifted up on high, 
A hundred thousand voices sent back their 

loud reply; 
Through the thronged towns of Essex the 

startling summons rang. 
And up from bench and loom and wheel 

her young mechanics sprang ! 

The voice of free, broad Middlesex, of 

thousands as of one, 
The shaft of Bunker calling to that of 

Lexington ; 7° 

From Norfolk's ancient villages, from 

Plymouth's rocky bound 
To v/here Nantucket feels the arms of 

ocean close her round; 

From rich and rural Worcester, where 

through the calm repose 
Of cultured vales and fringing woods the 

gentle Nashua flows, 
To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the 

mountain larches stir. 
Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of 

"God save Latimer !" 

And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with 
the salt sea spray; 

And Bristol sent her answering shout 
down Narragansett Bay! 

Along the broad Connecticut old Hamp- 
den felt the thrill, 

And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen 
swept down from Holyoke Hill. 80 

The voice of Massachusetts ! Of her free 

sons and daughters. 
Deep calling unto deep aloud, the sound 

of many waters ! 



Against the burden of that voice what 

tyrant power shall stand? 
No fetters in the Bay State? No slave 

upon her land ! 

Look to it well, Virginians ! In calmness 
we have borne. 

In answer to our faith and trust, your in- 
sult and your scorn ; 

You've spurned our kindest counsels, 
you've hunted for our lives ; 

And shaken round our hearths and homes 
your manacles and gyves ! 

We wage no war, we lift no arm, we fling 
no torch within 

The fire-damps of the quaking mine be- 
neath your soil of sin; 90 

We leave ye with your bondmen, to 
wrestle, while ye can. 

With the strong upward tendencies and 
godlike soul of man ! 

But for us and for our children, the vow 

which we have given 
For freedom and humanity is registered 

in heaven; 
No slave-hunt in our borders, — no pirate 

on our strand ! 
No fetters in the Bay State, — ^no slave 

upon our land ! 

1842. The Liberator, Jan. 27, 1843. 



THE SHOEMAKERS 

Ho ! workers of the old time styled 

The Gentle Craft of Leather! 
Young brothers of the ancient guild, 

Stand forth once more together ! 
Call out again your long array. 

In the olden merry manner ! 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

FHng out your blazoned banner!" 

Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone 

How falls the polished hammer ! 10 

Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown 

A quick and merry clamor. 
Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 

The glossy vamp around it, 
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 

Whose gentle fingers bound it ! 

For you, along the Spanish main 
A hundred keels are ploughing. 

For you, the Indian on the plain 

His lasso-coil is throv/ing; '*° 



246 



AMERICAN POETRY 



For you. deep glens with hemlock dark 
The woodman's fire is lighting; 

For you, upon the oak's gray bark, 
The woodman's axe is smiting. 

For you, from Carolina's pine 

The rosin-gum is stealing; 
For you, the dark-eyed Florentine 

Her silken skein is reeling ; 
For you, the dizzy goatherd roams 

His rugged Alpine ledges ; 30 

For you, round all her shepherd homes. 

Bloom England's thorny hedges. 

The foremost still, by day or night. 

On moated mound or heather. 
Where'er the need of trampled right 

Brought toiling men together; 
Where the free burghers from the wall 

Defied the mail-clad master, 
Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call. 

No craftsmen rallied faster. 4° 

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride, 

Ye heed no idle scorner; 
Free hands and hearts are still your pride. 

And duty done your honor. 
Ye dare to trust, for honest fame, 

The jury Time empanels, 
And leave to truth each noble name 

Which glorifies your annals. 

Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, 

In strong and hearty German; 5° 

And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit. 

And patriot fame of Sherman; 
Still from his book, a mystic seer, 

The soul of Behmen teaches, 
And England's priestcraft shakes to hear 

Of Fox's leathern breeches. 

The foot is yours ; where'er it falls, 

It treads your well-wrought leather. 
On earthern floor, in marble halls 

On carpet, or on heather. 60 

Still there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vestal's. 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 

Among the old celestials ! 

Rap, rap! — your stout and bluff brogan. 

With footsteps slow and weary, 
May wander where the sky's blue span 

Shuts down upon the prairie. 
On Beauty's foot your slippers glance, 

By Saratoga's fountains, 7° 

Or twinkle down the summer dance 

Beneath the Crystal Mountains ! 



The red brick to the mason's hand. 

The brown earth to the tiller's 
The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 

Like fairy Cinderella's ! 
As they who shunned the household maid 

Beheld the crown upon her. 
So all shall see your toil repaid 

With hearth and home and honor. 80 

Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 

In water cool and brimming, — 
"All honor to the good old Craft, 

Its merry men and women !" 
Call out again your long array, 

In the old time's pleasant manner: 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day. 

Fling out his blazoned banner ! 



1845. 



THE HUSKERS 



It was late in mild October, and the long 

autumnal rain 
Had left the summer harvest-fields all 

green with grass again ; 
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving 

all the woodlands gay 
With the hues of summer's rainbow, or 

the meadow-flowers of May. 

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, 
the sun rose broad and red, 

At first a rayless disk of fire, he bright- 
ened as he sped ; 

Yet even his noontide glory fell chast- 
ened and subdued, 

On the cornfields and the orchards and 
softly pictured wood. 

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping 

to the night. 
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with 

yellow light ; 10 

Slanting through the painted beeches, he 

glorified the hill ; 
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay 

brighter, greener still. 

And shouting boys in woodland haunts 
caught glimpses of that sky, 

Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and 
laughed, they knew not why; 

And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, 
beside the meadow brooks, 

Mingled the glow of autumn with the sun- 
shine of sweet looks. 



I 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



247 



From spire and barn looked westerly the 
patient weathercocks ; 

But even the birches on the hill stood mo- 
tionless as rocks. 

No sound was in the woodlands, save the 
squirrel's dropping shell, 

And the yellow leaves among the boughs, 
low rustling as they fell. 20 

The summer grains were harvested; the 

stubble-fields lay dry, 
Where June winds rolled, in light and 

shade, the pale green waves of rye; 
But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys 

fringed with wood, 
Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the 
. heavy corn crop stood. 

Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, 

through husks that, dry and sere, 
Unfolded from their ripened charge, 

shone out the yellow ear; 
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many 

a verdant fold. 
And glistened in the slanting light the 

pumpkin's sphere of gold. 

There wrought the busy harvesters; and 

many a creaking wain 
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load 

of husk and grain; 3° 

Till broad and red, as when he rose, the 

sun sank down, at last. 
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day 

in brightness passed. 

And lo ! as through the western pines, on 

meadow, stream, and pond. 
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all 

afire beyond. 
Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder 

glory shone, 
And the sunset and the moonrise were 

mingled into one ! 

As thus into the quiet night the twilight 

lapsed away. 
And deeper in the brightening moon the 

tranquil shadows lay ; 
From many a brown old farm-house, and 

hamlet without name. 
Their milking and their home-tasks done, 

the merry buskers came. 4° 

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from 
pitchforks in the mow, 
. Shone dimly down the lanterns on the 
pleasant scene below; 



The growing pile of husks behind, the 

golden ears before, 
And laughing eyes and busy hands and 

brown cheeks glimmering o'er. 

Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of 

look and heart. 
Talking their old times over, the old men 

sat apart; 
While up and down the unhusked pile, or 

nestling in its shade, 
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, 

the happy children played. 

Urged by the good host's daughter, a 

maiden young and fair. 
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and 

pride of soft brown hair, so 

The master of the village school, sleek of 

hair and smooth of tongue, 
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a 

husking-ballad sung. 

THE CORN SONG 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 

Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 

From out her lavish horn ! 

Let other lands, exulting, glean 

The apple from the pine. 
The orange from its glossy green, 

The cluster from the vine; 60 

We better love the hardy gift 

Our rugged vales bestow. 
To cheer us when the storm shall drift 

Our harvest-fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of 
flowers 

Our ploughs their furrows made, 
While on the hills the sun and showers 

Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain 
Beneath the sun of May, 7° 

And frightened from our sprouting grain 
The robber crows away. 

All through the long, bright days of June 
Its leaves grew green and fair. 

And waved in hot midsummer's noon 
Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves. 

Its harvest-time has come. 
We pluck away the frosted leaves. 

And bear the treasure home. 8° 



248 



AMERICAN POETRY 



There, when the snows about us drift, 

And winter winds are cold. 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 

And knead its meal of gold. 

Let vapid idlers loll in silk 

Around their costly board; 
Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 

By homespun beauty poured ! 

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 
Sends up its smoky curls' 9° 

Who will not thank the kindly earth, 
And bless our farmer girls ! 

Then shame on all the proud and vain, 

Whose folly laughs to scorn 
The blessing of our hardy grain, 

Our wealth of golden corn! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root. 

Let mildew bhght the rye. 
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 

The wheat-field to the fly: i°o 

But let the good. old crop adorn 

The hills our fathers trod ; 
Still let us, for his golden corn, 

Send up our thanks to God ! 

1847. 



For lo ! the pale land-seekers come, with 

eager eyes of gain. 
Wide scattering, like the bison herds on 

broad Salada's plain. 



Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what 

sound the winds bring down 
Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from 

cold Nevada's crown! 
Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with 

rein of travel slack. 
And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the 

sunrise at his back, 
.By many a lonely river, and gorge of 

fir and pine. 
On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly 

camp-fires shine. 



O countrymen and brothers ! that land of 

lake and plain, 
Of salt wastes alternating with valleys 

fat with grain, ^ 

Of mountains white with winter, looking 

downward, cold, serene, 
On their feet with spring-vines tangled 

and lapped in softest green; 
Swift through whose black volcanic gates, 

o'er many a sunny vale, 
Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's 

dusty trail ! 



THE CRISIS 

Written on learning the terms of the 
treaty with Mexico. 

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the 
desert's drouth and sand. 

The circles of our empire touch the 
western ocean's strand; 

From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, 
wild and free. 

Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to Cali- 
fornia's sea; 

And from the mountains of the east, to 
Santa Rosa's shore, 

The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air 
no more. 

O Vale of Rio Bravo ! Let thy simple 

children weep ; 
Close watch about their holy fire let maids 

of Pecos keep; 
Let Taos send her cry across Sierra 

Madre's pines. 
And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst 

her corn and vines; i° 



Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes 

whose mystic shores 
The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of 

Saxon oars ; 
Great herds that wander all unwatched, 

wild steeds that none have tamed, 
Strange fish in unknown streams, and 

birds the Saxon never named; 
Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, 

where Nature's chemic powers 
Work out the Great Designer's will; all 

these ye say are ours ! 3° 

Forever ours ! for good or ill, on us the 

burden lies; 
God's balance, watched by angels, is hung 

across the skies. 
Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn 

the poised and trembling scale? 
Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber 

Wrong prevail? 
Shall the broad land o'er which our flag 

in starry splendour waves. 
Forego through us its freedom, and bear 

the tread of slaves? 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



249 



The day is breaking in the East of which 

the prophets told, 
And brightens up the sky of Time the 

Christian Age of Gold; 
Old Might to Right is yielding, battle 

blade to clerkly pen. 
Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and 

her serfs stand up as men; 40 

The isles rejoice together, in a day are 

nations born. 
And the slave walks free in Tunis, and 

by Stamboul's Golden Horn ! 

Is this, O countrymen of mine ! a day 

for us to sow 
The soil of new-gained empire with 

slavery's seeds of woe? 
To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old 

World's cast-off crime, 
Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, 

from the tired lap of Time? 
I'o run anew the evil race the old lost 

nations ran. 
And die like them of unbelief of God, 

and wrong of man? 

Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End 

in this the prayers and tears, 
The toil, the strife, the watchings of our 

younger, better years? so 

Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall 

ours in shadow turn, 
A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through 

outer darkness borne? 
Where the far nations look for light, a 

blackness in the air? 
Where for words of hope they listened, 

the long wail of despair? 

The Crisis presses on us ; face to face 

with us it stands, 
With solemn lips of question, like the 

Sphinx in Egypt's sands ! 
This day we fashion Destiny, our web of 

Fate we spin; 
This day for all hereafter choose we 

holiness or sin ; 
Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's 

cloudy crown. 
We call the dews of blessing or the bolts 

of cursing down ! 60 



By all for which the martyrs bore their 

agony and shame; 
By all the warning words of truth with 

which the prophets came; 



By the Future which awaits us ; by all the 

hopes v^fhich cast 
Their faint and trembling beams across 

the blackness of the Past; 
And by the blessed thought of Him who 

for Earth's freedom died, 
O my people ! O my brothers ! let us 

choose the righteous side. 

So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful 
on his way ; 

To wed Penobscot's waters to San Fran- 
cisco's bay; 

To make the rugged places smooth, and 
sow the vales with grain; 

And bear, with Liberty and Law, the 
Bible in his train ; l^ 

The mighty West shall bless the East, 
and sea shall answer sea, 

And mountain unto mountain call. Praise 
God, for we are free ! 

1848. 



ICHABOD I 

So fallen! so lost! the Hght withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

Forevermore ! 



Revile him not, the Tempter hath 

A snare for all : 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall! 



Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage. 

When he who might 1° 

Have lighted up and led his age, 
Falls back in night. 

^ This poem was the outcome of the surprise 
and grief and forecast of evil consequences which 
I felt on reading the Seventh of March- speech 
of Daniel Webster in support of the "Com- 
promise," and the Fugitive Slave Law. No 
partisan or personal enmity dictated it. On the 
contrary my admiration of the splendid person- 
ality and intellectual power of the great senator 
was never stronger than when I laid down his 
speech, and, in one of the saddest moments of 
my life, penned my protest. 

But death softens all resentments, and the 
consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty 
and weakness modifies the severity of judgment. 
Years after, in "The Lost Occasion," I gave 
utterance to an almost universal regret that the 
great statesman did not live to see the flag which 
he loved trampled under the feet of Slavery, 
and, in view of this desecration, make his last 
days glorious in defence of "Liberty and Union, 
one and inseparable." {Author's Note.) 



250 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven, 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 

From hope and heaven ! 

Let not the land once proud of him 

Insult him now. 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim. 

Dishonored brow. ~° 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains ; 
A fallen angel's pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled: 3o 

When faith is lost, when honor dies. 
The man is dead ! 

Then pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze. 

And hide the shame ! 



1850. 



The Era, May 2, 1850. 



KOSSUTH I 

Type of two mighty continents ! — com- 
bining 
The strength of Europe with the 
warmth and glow 

Of Asian song and prophecy, — the shin- 
ing 
Of Orient splendors over Northern 
snow ! 

Who shall receive him? Who, unblush- 
ing, speak 

Welcome to him, who while he strove to 
break 

The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, 
smote off 

At the same blow the fetters of the serf, 

Rearing the altar of his Fatherland 
On the firm base of freedom, and 
thereby '° 

^ It can scarcely be necessary to say that there 
are elements in the character and passages in 
the history of the great Hungarian statesman 
and orator, which necessarily command the ad- 
miration of those, even, who believe that no 
political revolution was ever worth the price of 
human blood. (Author's Note.) 



Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless 
hand. 
Mocked not the God of Justice with a 
lie! 
Who shall be Freedom's mouthpiece? 

Who shall give 
Her welcoming cheer to the great fugi- 
tive? 
Not he who, all her sacred trusts betray- 
ing, 
In scourging back to slavery's hell of 

pain 
The swarthy Kossuths of our land 
again ! 
Not he whose utterance now from lips 

designed 
The bugle-march of Liberty to wind. 
And call her hosts beneath the breaking 
light, 20 

The keen reveille of her morn of fight, 
Is but the hoarse note of the blood- 
hound's baying, 
The wolf's long howl behind the bond- 
man's flight ! 
Oh for the tongue of him who lies at 
rest 
In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees, 
Last of the Puritan tribunes and the best 
To lend a voice to Freedom's sympa- 
thies, 
And hail the coming of the noblest guest 
The Old World's wrong has given the 
New World of the West ! 

1851. 



PICTURES 



Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, 
and o'er all 
Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, rain- 
ing down 
Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed 

town. 
The freshening meadows, and the hill- 
sides brown ; 
Voice of the west-wind from the 
hills of pine. 
And the brimmed river from its distant 
fall. 
Low hum of bees, and joyous interlude 
Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirting 

wood, — 
Heralds and prophecies of sound and 
sight, 
Blessed forerunners of the warmth and 
light, 10 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



251 



Attendant angels to the house of prayer, 
With reverent footsteps keeping pace 
with mine, — 
Once more, through God's great love, 

with you I share 
A morn of resurrection sweet and fair 
As that which saw, of old, in Pales- 
tine, 
Immortal Love uprising in fresh bloom 
From the dark night and winter of the 
tomb ! 

II 
White with its sun-bleached dust, the 
pathway winds 
Before me; dust is on the shrunken 

grass, 
And on the trees beneath whose boughs 
I pass; 20 

Frail screen against the Hunter of 
the sky. 
Who, glaring on me with his lidless eye, 
while mounting with his dog-star 
high and higher 
Ambushed in light intolerable, unbinds 
The burnished quiver of his shafts 
of fire. 
Between me and the hot fields of his 

South 
A tremulous glow, as from a furnace- 
mouth. 
Glimmers and swims before my daz- 
zled sight, 
As if the burning arrows of his ire 
Broke as they fell, and shattered into 
light; 30 

Yet on my cheek I feel the western wind. 
And hear it telling to the orchard trees. 
And to the faint and flower-forsaken 

bees, 
Tales of fair meadows, green with 
constant streams, 
And mountains rising blue and cool be- 
hind. 
Where in moist dells the purple orchis 
gleams. 
And starred with white the virgin's bower 

is twined. 
So the o'erwearied pilgrim, as he fares 
Along life's summer waste, at times is 
fanned. 
Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs 
Of a serener and a holier land, 41 

Fresh as the morn, and as the dewfall 
bland. 
Breath of the blessed Heaven for which 

we pray. 
Blow from the eternal hills ! make glad 
our earthly way! 

1852. 



FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS 

In calm and cool and silence, once again 
I find my old accustomed place among 
My brethren, where, perchance, no hu- 
man tongue 
Shall utter words ; where never hymn 

is sung. 
Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor cen- 
ser swung. 
Nor dim light falling through the pic- 
tured pane ! 
There, syllabled by silence, let me hear 
The still small voice which reached the 

prophet's ear ; 
Read in my heart a still diviner law 
Than Israel's leader on his tables saw ! 1° 
There let me strive with each besetting 
sin. 
Recall my wandering fancies, and re- 
strain 
The sore disquiet of a restless brain; 
And, as the path of duty is made plain. 
May grace be given that I may walk 
therein. 
Not like the hireling, for his selfish 
gain. 
With backward glances and reluctant 

tread, 
Making a merit of his coward dread. 
But, cheerful, in the light around me 
thrown. 
Walking as one to pleasant service led; 20 
Doing God's will as if it were my own. 
Yet trusting not in mine, but in his 
strength alone ! 

1852. 

SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE 
Lake Winnipesaukee 



White clouds, whose shadows haunt the 

deep, 
Light mists, whose soft embraces keep 
The sunshine on the hills asleep ! 

O isles of calm ! O dark, still wood ! 
And stiller skies that overbrood 
Your rest with deeper quietude ! 

O shapes and hues, dim beckoning, 

through 
Yon mountain gaps, my longing view 
Beyond the purple and the blue. 

To stiller sea and greener land, «> 

And softer lights and airs more bland, 
And skies, — the hollow of God's hand! 



252 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Transfused through you, O mountain 

friends! 
With mine your solemn spirit blends, 
And life no more hath separate ends. 

I read each misty mountain sign, 
I know the voice of wave and pine, 
And I am yours, and ye are mine. 

Life's burdens fall, its discords cease, 
I lapse into the glad release 20 

Of Nature's own exceeding peace. 

O welcome calm of heart and mind! 
As falls yon fir-tree's loosened rind 
To leave a tenderer growth behind. 

So fall the weary years away ; 
A child again, my head I lay 
Upon the lap of this sweet day. 

This western wind hath Lethean powers, 
Yon noonday cloud nepenthe showers. 
The lake is white with lotus-flowers ! 3° 

Even Duty's voice is faint and low. 
And slumberous Conscience, waking slow. 
Forgets her blotted scroll to show. 

The Shadow which pursues us all, 
Whose ever-nearing steps appall. 
Whose voice we hear behind us call, — 

That Shadow blends with mountain gray. 
It speaks but what the light waves say, — 
Death walks apart from Fear to-day ! 

Rocked on her breast, these pines and I 40 
Alike on Nature's love rely; 
And equal seems to live or die. 

Assured that He whose presence fills 
With light the spaces of these hills 
No evil to His creatures wills. 

The simple faith remains, that He 
Will do, whatever that may be, 
The best alike for man and tree, 



What mosses over one shall grow, 
What light and life the other know, 
Unanxious, leaving Him to show. 



so 



II. EVENING 

Yon mountain's side is black with night, 
While, broad-orbed, o'er its gleaming 
crown 

The moon, slow-rounding into sight, 
On the hushed inland sea looks down. 



How start to light the clustering isles. 
Each silver-hemmed ! How sharply 
show 

The shadows of their rocky piles. 
And tree-tops in the wave below ! 

How far and strange the mountains 
seem, 6° 

Dim-looking through the pale, still light ! 
The vague, vast grouping of a dream, 

They stretch into the solemn night. 

Beneath, lake, wood, and peopled vale, 
Hushed by that presence grand and 
grave. 

Are silent, save the cricket's wail, 
And low response of leaf and wave. 

Fair scenes ! whereto the Day and Night 
Make rival love, I leave ye soon. 

What time before the eastern light 70 
The pale ghost of the setting moon 

Shall hide behind yon rocky spines. 
And the young archer. Morn, shall 
break 

His arrows on the mountain pines. 
And, golden-sandalled, walk the lake ! 

Farewell ! around this smiling bay 

Gay-hearted Health, and Life in bloom. 

With lighter steps than mine, may stray 
In radiant summers yet to come. 

But none shall more regretful leave 8° 
These waters and these hills than I : 

Or, distant, fonder dream how eve 
Or dawn is painting wave and sky; 

How rising moons shine sad and mild 
On wooded isle and silvering bay; 

Or setting suns beyond the piled 
And purple mountains lead the day; 

Nor laughing girl, nor bearding boy, 
Nor full-pulsed manhood, lingering 
here, 

Shall add, to life's abounding joy, 9° 

The charmed repose to suffering dear. 

Still waits kind Nature to impart 
Her choicest gifts to such as gain 

An entrance to her loving heart 

Through the sharp discipline of pain. 

Forever from the Hand that takes 
One blessing from us others fall ; 

And, soon or late, our Father makes 
His perfect recompense to all!. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



253 



Oh, watched by Silence and the Night, ^°° 
And folded in the strong embrace 

Of the great mountains, with the light, 
Of the sweet heavens upon thy face, 

Lake of the Northland ! keep thy dower 
Of beauty still, and while above 

Thy solemn mountains speak of power, 
Be thou the mirror of God's love. 

1853. 



MAUD MULLERi 

Maud Muller on a summer's day 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her 
breast, — ^° 

A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And asked a draught from the spring that 

flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bub- 
bled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 20 

^ The poem had no real foundation in fact, 
though a hint of it may have been found in re- 
calling an incident, trivial in itself, of a journey 
on the picturesque Maine seaboard with my sister 
some years before it was written. We had 
stopped to rest our tired horse under the shade 
of an apple-tree, and refresh him with water 
from a little brook which rippled through the 
stone wall across the road. A very beautiful 
young girl in scantest summer attire was at 
work in the hay-field, and as we talked with her 
we noticed that she strove to hide her bare feet 
by raking hay over them, blushing as she did 
so, through the tan of her cheek and neck. 
{Author's Note.) 



And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered 
gown. 

"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter 

draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and 

trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming 

bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered 

whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul 

weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown ; 
And listened, while a pleased surprise 31 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : "Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 40 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
And the baby should have a new toy each 
day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the 

poor. 
And all should bless me who left our 

door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the 

hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair, so 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay; 



254 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"No doubtful balance of rights and 

wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

"But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and 

cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and 

gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 60 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he hummed in court an old love- 
tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright 

glow. 
He watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 7o 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished 

rooms 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret 

pain, 
"Ah, that I were free again ! 

"Free as when I rode that day, 
Where the barefoot maiden raked her 
hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 

And many children played round her 

door. 80 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 



In the shade of the apple- tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein; 

And, gazing down with timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 9° 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw. 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, "It might have been." ^°° 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all. 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 
The saddest are these: "It might have 
been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 

Roll the stone from its grave away ! "" 

The National Era, 1854. 



LETTER 

From a Missionary of the Methodist Episco- 
pal Church South, in Kansas, to a distinguished 
politician. 

Douglas Mission, August, 1854. 

Last week — the Lord be praised for all 

His mercies 
To His unworthy servant ! — I arrived 
Safe at the Mission, via Westport; where 
I tarried over night, to aid in forming 
A Vigilance Committee, to send back. 
In shirts of tar, and feather-doublets 

quilted 
With forty stripes save one, all Yankee 

comers, 
Uncircumcised and Gentile, aliens from 
The Commonwealth of Israel, who despise 
The prize of the high calling of the 

saints, ^° 

Who plant amidst this heathen wilderness 



I 
I 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



255 



Pure gospel institutions, sanctified 

By patriarchal use. The meeting opened 

With prayer, as was most fitting. Half 

an hour, 
Or thereaway, I groaned, and strove, and 

wrestled, 
As Jacob did at Penuel, till the power 
Fell on the people, and they cried "Amen !" 
"Glory to God !" and stamped and clapped 

their hands; 
And the rough river boatmen wiped their 

eyes ; 
"Go it, old boss !" they cried, and cursed 
the niggers — 20 

Fulfilling thus the word of prophecy, 
"Cursed be Canaan." After prayer, the 

meeting 
Chose a committee — good and pious 

men — 
A Presbyterian Elder, Baptist deacon, 
A local preacher, three or four class- 
leaders. 
Anxious inquirers, and renewed back- 
sliders, 
A score in all — to watch the river ferry, 
(As they of old did watch the fords of 

Jordan,) 
And cut off all whose Yankee tongues 

refuse 
The Shibboleth of the Nebraska bill. 30 
And then, in answer to repeated calls, 
I gave a brief account of what I saw 
In Washington; and truly many hearts 
Rejoiced to know the President, and you 
And all the Cabinet regularly hear 
The gospel message of a Sunday morning, 
Drinking with thirsty souls of the sincere 
Milk of the Word. Glory ! Amen, and 
Selah ! 

Here, at the Mission, all things have 

gone well : 
The brother who, throughout my absence, 

acted 40 

As overseer, assures me that the crops 
Never were better. I have lost one negro, 
A first-rate hand, but obstinate and sullen. 
He ran awav some time last spring, and 

hid ■ 

In the- river timber. There my Indian 

converts 
Found him, and treed and shot him. For 

the rest. 
The heathens round about begin to feel 
The influence of our pious mmistrations 
And works of love; and some of them 

already 
Have purchased negroes, and are settling 

down -° 



As sober Christians ! Bless the Lord for 

this! 
I know it will rejoice you. You, I hear. 
Are on the eve of visiting Chicago, 
To fight with the wild beasts of Ephesus, 
Long John, and Dutch Free-Soilers. 

May your arm 
Be clothed with strength, and on your 

tongue be found 
The sweet oil of persuasion. So desires 
Your brother and co-laborer. Amen ! 

P. S. All's lost. Even while I write 

these lines, 

The Yankee abolitionists are coming 6° 

Upon us like a flood — grim, stalwart men, 

Each face set like a flint of Plymouth 

Rock 
Against our institutions— staking out 
Their farm lots on the wooded Wakarusa, 
Or squatting by the mellow-bottomed 

Kansas ; 
The pioneers of mightier multitudes. 
The small rain-patter, ere the thunder 

shower 
Drowns the dry prairies. Hope from man 

is not. 
Oh,- for a quiet berth at Washington, 
Snug naval chaplaincy, or clerkship, 

where 7o 

These rumors of free labor and free soil 
Might never meet me more. Better to be 
Door-keeper at the White House, than to 

dwell 
Amidst these Yankee tents, that, whiten- 
ing, show 
On the green prairie like a fleet becalmed. 
Methinks I hear a voice come up the river 
From those far bayous, where the alli- 
gators 
Mount guard around the camping fili- 
busters : 
"Shake off the dust of Kansas. Turn to 

Cuba — 
(That golden orange just about to fall, 80 
O'er-ripe, into the Democratic lap;) 
Keep pace with Providence, or, as we say. 
Manifest destiny. Go forth and follow 
The message of our gospel, thither borne 
Upon the point of Quitman's bowie-knife. 
And the persuasive lips of Colt's revolvers. 
There may'st thou, underneath thy vine 

and fig-tree, 
Watch thy increase of sugar-cane and 

negroes, 
Calm as a patriarch in his eastern tent !" 
Amen : So mote it be. So prays your 
friend. 9° 

1854. 



256 



AMERICAN POETRY 



THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, little man, 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 

With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes; 

With thy red lip, redder still 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 

From my heart I give thee joy, — • 

I was once a barefoot boy! '° 

Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 

Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side. 

Thou hast more than he can buy 

In the reach of ear and eye, — 

Outward sunshine, inward joy : 

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

Oh for boyhood's painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, *° 

Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 

Knowledge never learned of schools, 

Of the wild bee's morning chase. 

Of the wild-flower's time and place, 

Flight of fowl and habitude 

Of the tenants of the wood; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 

How the robin feeds her young, 3° 

How the oriole's nest is hung; 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow. 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 

Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 

Of the black wasp's cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 

Of gray hornet artisans! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 4o 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he walks. 

Face to face with^ her he talks, 

Part and parcel of her joy, — • 

Blessings on the barefoot boy 1 

Oh for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, so 

Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played. 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 



Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 6° 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 



Oh for festal dainties spread. 
Like my bowl of milk and bread; 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
Purple-curtained, fringed with' gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
And, to light the noisy choir. 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 



8o 



Cheerily, then, my little man. 

Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 

Though the flinty slopes be hard. 

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward. 

Every morn shall lead thee through 

Fresh baptisms of the dew; 

Every evening' from thy feet 

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 9° 

All too soon these feet must hide 

In the prison cells of pride. 

Lose the freedom of the sod. 

Like a colt's for work be shod, 

Made to tread the mills of toil. 

Up and down in ceaseless moil : 

Happy if their track be found 

Never on forbidden ground; 

Happy if they sink not in 

Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 1°° 

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy. 

Ere it passes, barefoot boy I 

1855 ? 

ARISEN AT LASTi 

I said I stood upon thy grave. 

My Mother State, when last the moon 
Of blossoms clomb the skies of June. 

''■ On the passage of the bill to protect the 
rights and liberties of the people of the State 
against the Fugitive Slave Act. (Author's Note.) 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



257 



And, scattering ashes on my head, 
I wore, undreaming of rehef, 
The sackcloth of thy shame and grief. 

Again that moon of blossoms shines 
On leaf and flower and folded wing. 
And thou hast risen with the spring ! 

Once more thy strong maternal arms ^° 
Are round about thy children flung, — 
A lioness that guards her young ! 

No threat is on thy closed lips, 
But in thine eye a power to smite 
The mad wolf backward from its light. 

Southward the baffled robber's track 
Henceforth runs only; hereaway. 
The fell lycanthrope finds no prey. 

Henceforth, within thy sacred gates, 
His first low howl shall downward draw 
The thunder of thy righteous law. 21 

Not mindless of thy trade and gain, 
But, acting on the wiser plan. 
Thou 'rt grown conservative of man. 

So shalt thou clothe with life the hope. 
Dream-painted on the sightless eyes 
Of him who sang of Paradise, — 

The vision of a Christian man, 
In virtue, as in stature great 
Embodied in a Christian State. 3° 

And thou, amidst thy sisterhood 
Forbearing long, yet standing fast, 
Shalt win their grateful thanks at last; 

When North and South shall strive no 
more, 
And all their feuds and fears be lost 
In Freedom's holy Pentecost. 

1855. 1855? 



THE PANORAMA 

(Conclusion.) 

My task is done. The Showman and 
his show, 
Themselves but shadows, into shadows go ; 
And, if no song of idlesse I have sung, 
Nor tints of beauty on the canvas flung; 
If the harsh numbers grate on tender ears, 
And the rough picture overwrought ap- 
pears; 



With deeper coloring, with a sterner blast. 
Before my soul a voice and vision passed. 
Such as might Milton's jarring trump 

require. 
Or glooms of Dante fringed with lurid 

fire. 10 

Oh, not of choice, for themes of public 

wrong 
I leave the green and pleasant paths of 

song. 
The mild, sweet words which soften and 

adorn. 
For sharp rebuke and bitter laugh of 

scorn. 
More dear to me some song of private 

worth. 
Some homely idyl of my native North, 
Some summer pastoral of her inland vales, 
Or, grim and weird, her winter fireside 

tales 
Haunted by ghosts of unreturning sails. 
Lost barks at parting hung from stem 

to helm 20 

With prayers of love like dreams on 

Virgil's elm. 
Nor private grief nor malice holds my 

pen; 
I owe but kindness to my fellow-men; 
And, South or North, wherever hearts of 

prayer 
Their woes and weakness to our Father 

bear. 
Wherever fruits of Christian love are 

found 
In holy lives, to me is holy ground. 
But the time passes. It were vain to crave 
A late indulgence. What I had I gave. 
Forget the poet, but his warning heed, 3° 
And shame his poor word with your 

nobler deed. 

1856. 

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 

Of all the rides since the birth of time,. 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass. 
Witch astride of a human back, 
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 1° 

By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 

Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl. 



258 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Feathered and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young, 
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane. 
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: 
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, _ 20 

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead !" 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. 
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 
Bacchus round some antique vase. 
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare. 
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' 

twang. 
Over and over the Maenads sang : 3° 

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead !" 



Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray. 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 6° 
Hulks of old sailors run aground. 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 
And cracked with curses the hoarse re- 
frain : 
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead !" 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 
Little the wicked skipper knew 
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 
Riding there in his sorry trim, 7i 

Like an Indian idol glum and grim. 
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting, far and near: 

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead !" 



Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay, — 
Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own town's-people on her deck ! 
"Lay by ! lay by !" they called to him. 
Back he answered, "Sink or swim ! 
Brag of j'our catch of fish again !" 4° 

And of¥ he sailed through the fog and 
rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid. 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might not 
be! so 

What did the winds and the sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Through the street, on either side. 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide; 



"Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — 
"What to me is this noisy ride? 
W^hat is the shame that clothes the skin So 
To the nameless horror that lives within? 
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck. 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 
Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
The hand of God and the face of the 
dead!" 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 

heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, "God has touched him ! why should 
we !" 90 

Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run !" 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose. 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in. 
And left him alone with his shame and 
sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead! 



1828, 1857. 



1857. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WIIITTIER 



259 



THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN 



O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched 

hands 
Piead with the leaden heavens in vain, 
I see, Vjeyond the valley lands, 

The sea's long level dim with rain. 
Around me all things, stark and dumb. 
Seem praying for the snows to come. 
And, for the summer bloom and green- 
ness gone, 
With winter's sunset lights and dazzling 
morn atone. 



Along the river's summer walk. 

The withered tufts of asters nod; 'o 
And trembles on its arid stalk 

The hoar plume of the golden-rod. 
And on a ground of sombre fir, 
And azure-studded juniper, 
The silver birch its buds of purple shows. 
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the 
sweet wild-rose! 



With mingled sound of horns and bells, 
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly, 
Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and 
fells. 
Like a great arrow through the sky, 20 
Two dusky lines converged in one, 
Chasing the southward-flying sun ; 
While the brave snow-bird and the hardy 

jay 
Call to them from the pines, as if to bid 
them stay. 

IV 

I passed this way a year ago : 

The wind blew south; the noon of 
day 
Was warm as June's ; and save that 
snow 
Flecked the low mountains far away, 
And that the vernal-seeming breeze 
Mocked faded grass and leafless trees, 3° 
I might have dreamed of summer as I lay. 
Watching the fallen leaves with the soft 
wind at play. 



Since then, the winter blasts have piled 
The white pagodas of the snow 

On these rough slopes, and, strong and 
wild, 
Yon river, in its overflow 



Of spring-time rain and sun, set free. 
Crashed with its ices to the sea; 
And over these gray fields, then green and 

gold. 
The summer corn has waved, the thun- 
der's organ rolled. 40 



Rich gift of God! A year of time! 

What pomp of rise and shut of day. 
What hues wherewith our Northern 
clime 
Makes autumn's dropping woodlands 
gay, 
What airs outblown from ferny dells. 
And clover - bloom and sweetbrier 
smells, 
What songs of brooks and birds, what 

fruits and flowers, 
Green woods and moonlit snows, have in 
its round been ours ! 



I know not how, in other lands, 49 

The changing seasons come and go; 
What splendors fall on Syrian sands. 
What purple lights on Alpine snow ! 
Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits 
On Venice at her watery gates ; 
A dream alone to me is Arno's vale. 
And the Alhambra's halls are but a travel- 
ler's tale. 



Yet, on life's current, he who drifts 

Is one with him who rows or sails; 
And he who wanders widest lifts 

No more of beauty's jealous veils 60 
Than he who from his doorway sees 
The miracle of flowers and trees, 
Feels the warm Orient in tTie noonday air. 
And from cloud minarets hears the sun- 
set call to prayer ! 



The eye may well be glad that looks 
Where Pharpar's fountains rise and 
fall ; 
But he who sees his native brooks 

Laugh in the sun, has seen them all. 
The marble palaces of Ind 
Rise round him in the snow and wind; 
From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz 
smiles, 7i 

And Rome's cathedral awe is in his wood- 
land aisles. 



260 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And thus it is my fancy blends 

The near at hand and far and rare; 
And while the same horizon bends 

Above the silver-sprinkled hair 
Which flashed the light of morning 

skies 
On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes, 
Within its round of sea and sky and field, 
Earth wheels with all her zones, the 
Kosmos stands revealed. 80 



And thus the sick man on his bed, 

The toiler to his task-work bound. 
Behold their prison-walls outspread, 

Their clipped horizon widen round! 
While freedom-giving fancy waits, 
Like Peter's angel at the gates. 
The power is theirs to bafHe care and pain. 
To bring the lost world back, and make 
it theirs again ! 



What lack of goodly company, 

When masters of the ancient lyre 9° 
Obey my call, and trace for me 
Their words of mingled tears and 
fire! 
I talk with Bacon, grave and wise, 
I read the world with Pascal's eyes ; 
And priest and sage, with solemn brows 

austere. 
And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of 
Thought, draw near. 



Methinks, O friend, I hear thee say, 

"In vain the human heart we mock; 
Bring living guests who love the day. 

Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock ! 
The herbs we share with flesh and 
blood loi 

Are better than ambrosial food 
With laurelled shades." I grant it, noth- 
ing loath. 
But doubly blest is he who can partake 
of both. 

XIV 1 
He who might Plato's banquet grace. 

Have I not seen before me sit. 
And watched his puritanic face, 

With more than Eastern wisdom lit? 
Shrewd mystic ! who, upon the back 
Of his Poor Richard's Almanac "o 

^ Stanzas xiv-xvi, Emerson, Bayard Taylor, 
Sumner, 



Writing the Sufi's song, the Gentoo's 

dream. 
Links Manu's age of thought to Fulton's 

age of steam! 



XV 

Here too, of answering love secure. 

Have I not welcomed to my hearth 
The gentle pilgrim troubadour, 
Whose songs have girdled half the 
earth ; 
Whose pages, like the magic mat 
Whereon the Eastern lover sat. 
Have borne me over Rhine-land's purple 

vines. 
And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phrygia's 
mountain pines ! 120 



And he, who to the lettered wealth 

Of ages adds the lore unpriced. 
The wisdom and the moral health. 

The ethics of the school of Christ; 
The statesman to his holy trust, 
As the Athenian archon, just. 
Struck down, exiled like him for truth 

alone. 
Has he not graced my home with beauty 
all his own? 



XVII 

What greetings smile, what farewells 
wave. 
What loved ones enter and depart ! 130 
The good, the beautiful, the brave. 

The Heaven-lent treasures of the 
heart ! 
How conscious seems the frozen sod 
And beechen slope whereon they trod ! 
The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass 

bends 
Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or ab- 
sent friends. 



XVIII 

Then ask not why to these bleak hills 

I cling, as clings the tufted moss ; 138 
To bear the winter's lingering chills. 

The mocking spring's perpetual loss. 
I dream of lands where summer smiles. 
And soft winds blow from spicy isles. 
But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flow- 
ers be sweet. 
Could I not feel thy soil, New England, 
at my feet I 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



261 



At times I long for gentler skies, _ 

And bathe in dreams of softer air, 
But homesick tears would fill the eyes 

That saw the Cross without the Bear. 

The pine must whisper to the palm, 149 

The north-wind break the tropic calm ; 

And with the dreamy languor of the 

Line, 
The North's keen virtue blend, and 
strength to beauty join. 



Better to stem with heart and hand 
The roaring tide of life, than lie. 
Unmindful, on its flowery strand, 
Of God's occasions drifting by ! 
Better with naked nerve to bear 
The needles of this goading air, 
Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego 
The godlike power to do, the godlike aim 
to know. 160 



Home of my heart! to me more fair 
Than gay Versailles or Windsor's 
halls. 
The painted, shingly town-house where 
The freeman's vote for Freedom falls ! 
The simple roof where prayer is made, 
Than Gothic groin and colonnade ; 
The living temple of the heart of man. 
Than Rome's sky - mocking vault, or 
many-spired Milan ! 



More dear thy equal village schools, 
Where rich and poor the Bible 
read, 170 

Than classic halls where Priestcraft 
rules, 
And Learning wears the chains of 
Creed; 
Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in 
The scattered sheaves of home and kin, 
Than the mad license ushering Lenten 

pains, 
Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance 
in chains. 



But with the faults and follies of the race, 
Old home-bred virtues hold their not un- 
honored place. 



Here manhood struggles for the sake 

Of mother, sister, daughter, wife, 
The graces and the loves which make 

The music of the march of life; 
And woman, in her daily round 
Of duty, walks on holy ground. 190 

No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here 
Is the bad lesson learned at human rights 
to sneer. 



Then let the icy north-wind blow 

The trumpets of the coming storm. 
To arrowy sleet and blinding snow 

Yon slanting lines of rain transform. 
Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold, 
As gayly as I did of old; 
And I, who watch them through the 

frosty pane, 
Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er 
again. 200 

XXVI 

And I will trust that He who heeds 

The Hfe that hides in mead and wold, 
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, 
And stains these mosses green and 
gold, 
Will still, as He hath done, incline 
His gracious care to me and mine ; 
Grant what we ask aright, from wrong 

debar, 
And, as the earth grows dark, make 
brighter every star ! 

XXVII 

I have not seen, I may not see, 

My hopes for man take form in fact, 
But God will give the victory 211 

In due time; in that faith I act. 
And he who sees the future sure, 
The baffling present may endure. 
And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand 

that leads 
The heart's desires beyond the halting step 
of deeds. 



And sweet homes nestle in these dales, 
And perch along these wooded swells ; 

And, blest beyond Arcadian vales, '79 
They hear the sound of Sabbath bells ! 

Here dwells no perfect man sublime. 

Nor woman winged before her time. 



XXVIII 

And thou, my song, I send thee forth, 
Where harsher songs of mine have 

flown; 
Go, find a place at home and hearth 
Where'er thy singer's name is 

known ; ^^ 



262 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Revive for him the kindly thought 
Of friends; and they who love him not, 
Touched by some strain of thine, per- 
chance may take 
The hand he proffers all, and thank him 
for thy sake. 

1856. 1857. 



THE GARRISON OF CAPE ANN 

From the hills of home forth looking, far 

beneath the tent-like span 
Of the sky, I see the white gleam of the 

headland of Cape Ann. 
Well I know its coves and beaches to the 

ebb-tide glimmering down. 
And the white-walled hamlet children of 

its ancient fishing-town. 

Long has passed the summer morning, and 

its memory waxes old. 
When along yon breezy headlands with a 

pleasant friend I strolled. 
Ah ! the autumn sun is shining, and the 

ocean wind blows cool, 
And the golden-rod and aster bloom 

around thy grave, Rantoul ! 

With the memory of that morning by the 

summer sea I blend 
A wild and wondrous story, by the 

younger Mather penned, lo 

In that quaint Magnalia Christi, with all 

strange and marvellous things, 
Heaped up huge and undigested, like the 

chaos Ovid sings. 

Dear to me these far, faint glimpses of 

the dual life of old. 
Inward, grand with awe and reverence; 

outward, mean and coarse and cold ; 
Gleams of mystic beauty playing over dull 

and vulgar clay, 
Golden-threaded fancies weaving in a web 

of hodden gray. 

The great eventful Present hides the Past; 

but through the din 
Of its loud life hints and echoes from 

the life behind steal in; 
And the lore of home and fireside, and 

the legendary rhyme. 
Make the task of duty lighter which the 

true man owes his time. ^o 

So, with something of the feeling which 
the Covenanter knew, 

When with pious chisel wandering Scot- 
land's moorland graveyards through. 



P'rom the graves of old traditions I part 

the blackberry-vines, 
Wipe the moss from off the headstones, 

and retouch the faded lines. 



Where the sea-waves back and forward, 

hoarse with rolling pebbles, ran, 
The garrison-house stood watching on the 

gray rocks of Cape Ann; 
On its windy site uplifting gabled roof 

and palisade. 
And rough walls of unhewn timber with 

the moonlight overlaid. 

On his slow round walked the sentry, 

south and eastward looking forth 
O'er a rude and broken coast-line, white 

with breakers stretching north, — 3° 
Wood and rock and gleaming sand-drift, 

jagged capes, with bush and tree. 
Leaning inland from the smiting of the 

wild and gusty sea. 

Before the deep-mouthed chimney, dimly 
lit by dying brands, 

Twenty soldiers sat and waited, with their 
muskets in their hands ; 

On the rough-hewn oaken table the veni- 
son haunch was shared, 

And the pewter tankard circled slowly 
round from beard to beard. 

Long they sat and talked together, — 

talked of wizards Satan-sold; 
Of all ghostly sights and noises, — signs 

and wonders manifold; 
Of the spectre-ship of Salem, with the 

dead men in her shrouds. 
Sailing sheer above the water, in the loom 

of morning clouds ; 40 

Of the marvellous valley hidden in the 

depths of Gloucester woods. 
Full of plants that love the summer, — 

blooms of warmer latitudes; 
Where the Arctic birch is braided by the 

tropic's flowery vines, 
And the white magnolia-blossoms star the 

twilight of the pines ! 

But their voices sank yet lower, sank to 

husky tones of fear, 
As they spake of present tokens of the 

powers of evil near; — 
Of a spectral host, defying stroke of steel 

and aim of gun; 
Never yet was ball to slay them in the 

mould of mortals run ! 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



263 



Thrice, with plumes and flowing scalp- 
locks, from the midnight wood they 
came, — 

Thrice around the block-house marching, 
met, unharmed, its volleyed flame ; so 

Then, with mocking laugh and gesture, 
sunk in earth or lost in air, 

All the ghostly wonder vanished, and the 
moonlit sands lay bare. 

Midnight came; from out the forest 

moved a dusky mass that soon 
Grew to warriors, plumed and painted 

grimly marching in the moon. 
"Ghosts or witches," said the captain, 

"thus I foil the Evil One!" 
And he rammed a silver button, from his 

doublet, down his gun. 

Once again the spectral horror moved the 

guarded wall about ; 
Once again the levelled muskets through 

the palisades flashed out. 
With that deadly aim the squirrel on his 

tree-top might not shun. 
Nor the beach-bird seaward flying with 

his slant wing to the sun. 60 

Like the idle rain of summer sped the 

harmless shower of lead. 
With a laugh of fierce derision, once 

again the phantoms fled ; 
Once again, without a shadow on the 

sands the moonlight lay. 
And the white smoke curling through it 

drifted slowly down the bay! 

"God preserve us !" said the captain ; 

"never mortal foes were there; 
They have vanished with their leader, 

Prince and Power of the air! 
Lay aside your useless weapons; skill and 

prowess naught avail; 
They who do the Devil's service wear 

their master's coat of mail!" 

So the night grew near to cock-crow, 
when again a warning call 

Roused the score of weary soldiers watch- 
ing round the dusky hall : 1° 

And they looked to flint and priming, 
and they longed for break of day; 

But the captain closed his Bible : "Let us 
cease from man, and pray!" 

To the men who went before us, all the 
unseen powers seemed near. 

And their steadfast strength of courage 
struck its roots in holy fear. 



Every hand forsook the musket, every 

head was bowed and bare, 
Every stout knee pressed the flag-stones, 

as the captain led in prayer. 

Ceased thereat the mystic marching of the 

spectres round the wall. 
But a sound abhorred, unearthly, smote 

the ears and hearts of all, — 
Howls of rage and shrieks of anguish! 

Never after mortal man 
Saw the ghostly leaguers marching round 

the block-house of Cape Ann. 80 

So to us who walk in summer through 

the cool and sea-blown town. 
From the childhood of its people comes 

the solemn legend down. 
Not in vain the ancient fiction, in whose 

moral lives the youth 
And the fitness and the freshness of an 

undecaying truth. 

Soon or late to all our dwellings come 

the spectres of the mind. 
Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, 

in the darkness undefined; 
Round us throng the grim projections of 

the heart and of the brain. 
And our pride of strength is weakness, 

and the cunning hand is vain. 

In the dark we cry like children; and no 
answer from on high 

Breaks the crystal spheres of silence, and 
no white wings downward fly; 9° 

But the heavenly help we pray for comes 
to faith, and not to sight. 

And our prayers themselves drive back- 
ward all the spirits of the night! 

1857. 



TELLING THE BEES 1 

Here is the place; right over the hill 

Runs the path I took; 
You can see the gap in the old wall still. 

And the stepping-stones in the shallow 
brook. 

1 A remarkable custom, brought from the Old 
Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts 
of New England. On the death of a member 
of the family, the bees were at once informed 
of the event, and their hives dressed in mourn- 
ing. This ceremonial was supposed to be neces- 
sary to prevent the swarms from leaving their 
hives and seeking a new home. — {.Author's 
Note.) 



264. 



AMERICAN POETRY 



There is the house, with the gate red- 
barred, 
And the poplars tall; 
And the barn's brown length, and the 
cattle-yard, 
And the white horns tossing above the 
wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun ; 

And down by the brink lo 

Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed- 

o'errun, 
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 

Heavy and slow ; 
And the same rose blows, and the same 
sun glows. 

And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There 's the same sweet clover-smell in 
the breeze; 

And the June sun warm 
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees. 

Setting, as then, over Fernside farm, ^o 

I mind me how with a lover's care 

From my Sunday coat 
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my 
hair. 
And cooled at the brookside mjj brow 
and throat. 

Since we parted, a month had passed, — 

To love, a year; 
Down through the beeches I looked at 
last 
On the little red gate and the well- 
sweep near. 

I can see it all now, — the slantwise rain 
Of light through the' leaves, 30 

The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, 
The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, — 

The house and the trees. 
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the 
door,— 

Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall. 

Forward and back. 
Went drearily singing the chore - girl 
small. 

Draping each hive with a shred of black. 



Trembling, I listened : the summer sun 4i 

Had the chill of snow ; 
For I knew she was telling the bees of one 

Gone on the journey we all must go ! 

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps 

For the dead to-day : 
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps 

The fret and the pain of his age away." 

But her dog whined low; on the doorway 
sill. 

With his cane to his chin, 50 

The old man sat ; and the chore-girl still 

Sung to the bees steahng out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since 

In my ear sounds on : — 
"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! 

Mistress Mary is dead and gone !" 

The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1858. 



THE DOUBLE-HEADED SNAKE OF 
NEWBURY 

"Concerning ye Amphisbaena, as soon as I re- 
ceived your commands, I made diligent inquiry: 
he assures me yt had really two heads, 
one at each end; two mouths, two' stings or 
tongues." — Rev. Christopher Toppwn to Cotton 
Mather. 

Far away in the twilight time 
Of every people, in every clime. 
Dragons and griffins and monsters dire, 
Born of water, and air, and fire, 
Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud 
And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, 
Crawl and wriggle and foam with rage, 
Through dusk tradition and ballad age. 
So from the childhood of Newbury town 
And its time of fable the tale comes down 
Of a terror which haunted bush and brake, 
The Amphisbaena, the Double Snake ! 12 

Thou who makest the tale thy mirth, 

Consider that strip of Christian earth 

On the desolate shore of a sailless sea, 

Full of terror and mystery. 

Half redeemed from the evil hold 

Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and 

old, 
Which drank with its lips of leaves the 

dew 
When Time was young, and the world 

was new, 20 

And wove its shadows with sun and moon, 
Ere the stones of Cheops were squared 

and hewn. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



265 



Think of the sea's dread monotone, 

Of the mournful wail from the pine-wood 

blown, 
Of the strange, vast splendors that lit the 

North, 
Of the troubled throes of the quaking 

earth. 
And the dismal tales the Indian told, 
Till the settler's heart at his hearth grew 

cold. 
And he shrank from the tawny wizard 

boasts, 
And the hovering shadows seemed full of 

ghosts, 30 

And above, below, on every side. 
The fear of his creed seemed verified; — 
And think, if his lot were now thine own, 
To grope with terrors nor named nor 

known. 
How laxer muscle and weaker nerve 
And a feebler faith thy need might serve; 
And own to thyself the wonder more 
That the snake had two heads, and not 

a score ! 

Whether he lurked in the Oldtown fen 
Or the gray earth-flax of the Devil's 

Den, 40 

Or swam in the wooded Artichoke, 
Or coiled by the Northman's Written 

Rock, 
Nothing on record is left to show; 
Only the fact that he lived, we know, 
And left the cast of a double head 
In the scaly mask which he yearly shed. 
F"or he carried a head where his tail 

should be. 
And the two, of course, could never agree. 
But wriggled about with main and might, 
Now to the left and now to the right; so 
Pulling and twisting this way and that 
Neither knew what the other was at. 



And how the spark, who was forced to 

stay. 
By his sweetheart's fears, till the break 

of day. 
Thanked the snake for the fond delay ! 7o 

Far and wide the tale was told, 
Like a snowball growing while it rolled. 
The nurse hushed with it the baby's cry; 
And it served, in the worthy minister's 

eye. 
To paint the primitive serpent by. 
Cotton Mather came galloping down 
All the way to Newbury town. 
With his eyes agog and his ears set wide, 
And his marvellous inkhorn at his side; 
Stirring the while in the shallow pool 80 
Of his brains for the lore he learned at 

school. 
To garnish the story, with here a streak 
Of Latin, and there another of Greek: 
And the tales he heard and the notes he 

. took. 
Behold ! are they not in his Wonder- 
Book? 

Stories, like dragons, are hard to kill. 
If the snake does not, the tale runs still 
In Byfield Meadows, on Pipestave Hill. 
And still, whenever husband and wife 
Publish the shame of their daily strife, 90 
And, with mad cross-purpose, tug and 

strain 
At either end of the marriage-chain. 
The gossips say, with a knowing shake 
Of their gray heads, "Look at the Double 

Snake ! 
One in body and two in will. 
The Amphisbjena is living still !" 

The Atlantic Monthly, March, 1859. 



A snake with two heads, lurking so near ! 
Judge of the wonder, guess at the fear ! 
Think what ancient gossips might say. 
Shaking their heads in their dreary way, 
Between the meetings on Sabbath-day ! 
How urchins, searching at day's decline 
Thi Common Pasture for sheep or kine. 
The terrible double-ganger heard 60 

In leafy rustle or whir of bird ! 
Think what a zest it gave to the sport. 
In berry-time, if the younger sort, 
As over pastures blackberry-twined, 
Reuben and Dorothy lagged behind. 
And closer and closer, for fear of harm, 
The maiden clung to her lover's arm ; 



BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE 

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his 

dying day : 
"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest 

in Slavery's pay. 
But let some poor slave-mother whom I 

have striven to free, 
With her children, from the gallows-stair 

put up a prayer for me!" 

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led hin- 

out to die; 
And lo ! a poor slave-mother with he; 

little child pressed nigh. 



266 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and 
the old harsh face grew mild, 

As he stooped between the jeering ranks 
and kissed the negro's child ! 

The shadows of his stormy life that mo- 
ment fell apart; 

And they who blamed the bloody hand 
forgave the loving heart. lo 

That kiss from all its guilty means re- 
deemed the good intent, 

And round the grisly fighter's hair the 
martyr's aureole bent! 

Perish with him the folly that seeks 

through evil good ! 
Long live the generous purpose unstained 

with human blood ! 
Not the raid of midnight terror, but the 

thought which underlies ; 
Not the borderer's pride of daring, but 

the Christian's sacrifice. 

Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the 

Northern rifle hear. 
Nor see the light of blazing homes flash 

on the negro's spear. 
But let the free-winged angel Truth their 

guarded passes scale. 
To teach that right is more than might, 

and justice more than mail ! 20 

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in 

array ; 
In vain her trampling squadrons knead 

the winter snow with clay. 
She may strike the pouncing eagle, but 

she dares not harm the dove; 
And every gate she bars to Hate shall 

open wide to Love ! 

1859. 
THE WAITING 

I wait and watch : before my eyes 

Methinks the night grows thin and gray ; 
I wait and watch the eastern skies 
To see the golden spears uprise 
Beneath the orifiamme of day ! 

Like one whose limbs are bound in trance 

I hear the day-sounds swell and grow. 
And see across the twilight glance, 
Troop after troop, in swift advance. 
The shining ones with plumes of snow! 

10 

I know the errand of their feet, 

I know what mighty work is theirs; 
I can but lift up hands unmeet 
The threshing-floors of God to beat, 
And speed them with unworthy prayers. 



I will not dream in vain despair 

The steps of progress wait for me: 
The puny leverage of a hair 
The planet's impulse well may spare, 
A drop of dew the tided sea. 20 

The loss, if loss there be, is mine. 
And yet not mine if understood; 
For one shall grasp and one resign, 
One drink life's rue, and one its wine, 
And God shall make the balance good. 

Oh power to do ! Oh baffled will ! 

Oh prayer and action ! ye are one. 
Who may not strive, may yet fulfil 
The harder task of standing still, 29 

And good but wished with God is done ! 

1862. 

BARBARA FRIETCHIE 1 

Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn. 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as the garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain- 
wall ; 10 

Over the mountains winding down. 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
She took up the flag the men hauled 
down ; 20 

In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

' See Pickard's "Life of Whittier," vol. ii, pp. 
454-459. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



267 



Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

"Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
"Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 3° 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word ; 40 

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on !" he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet : 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night, so 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 60 

1863. The Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1863. 



LAUS DEO!i 

It is done ! 

Clang of bell and roar of gun 
Send the tidings up and down. 

How the belfries rock and reel ! 

How the great guns, peal on peal, 
Fling the joy from town to town! 

Ring, O bells! 
Every stroke exulting tells 

Of the burial hour of crime. 
Loud and long, that all may hear. 
Ring for every listening ear 

Of Eternity and Time! 

Let us kneel : 
God's own voice is in that peal, 

And this spot is holy ground. 
Lord, forgive us ! What are we. 
That our eyes this glory see, 

That our ears have heard the sound! 



For the Lord 

On the whirlwind is abroad ; 20 

In the earthquake He has spoken ; 

He has smitten with his thunder 

The iron walls asunder, 
And the gates of brass are broken! 

Loud and long 

Lift the old exulting song; 
Sing with Miriam by the sea. 

He has cast the mighty down; 

Horse and rider sink and drown; 
"He hath triumphed gloriously!" 3° 

Did we dare, 

In our agony of prayer. 
Ask for more than He has done? 

When was ever his right hand 

Over any time or land 
Stretched as now beneath the sun? 

How they pale. 
Ancient myth and song and tale. 

In this wonder of our days, 

When the cruel rod of war 40 

Blossoms white with righteous law, 

And the wrath of man is praise ! 

* On hearing the bells ring on the passage of 
the constitutional amendment abolishing slavery. 
The resolution was adopted by Congress, Jan- 
uary 31, 1865. The ratification by the requisite 
number of States was announced December 18, 
1865. {Author's Note.) 



268 



AMERICAN POETRY 



■ 



Blotted out! 

All within and all about 
Shall a fresher life begin; 

Freer breathe the universe 

As it rolls its heavy curse 
On the dead and buried sin ! 

It is done! 
In the circuit of the sun 5° 

Shall the sound thereof go forth. 
It shall bid the sad rejoice, 
It shall give the dumb a voice, 

It shall belt with joy the earth! 

Ring and swing. 
Bells of joy! On morning's wing 

Send the song of praise abroad ! 
With a sound of broken chains 
Tell the nations that He reigns, 

Who alone is Lord and God ! 60 

1865. The Independent, Feb. 9, 1865. 

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS 

friends ! with whom my feet have trod 
The quiet aisles of prayer. 

Glad witness to your zeal for God 
And love of man I bear. 

1 trace your lines of argument; 
Your logic linked and strong 

I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 
And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still my human hands are weak 
To hold your iron creeds : 10 

Against the words ye bid me speak 
My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? 

Who talks of scheme and plan? 
The Lord is God ! He needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod ; 

I dare not fix with mete and bound 
The love and power of God. 20 

Ye praise his justice; even such 

His pitying love I deem : 
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch 

The robe that hath no seam. 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss; 
I hear our Lord's beatitudes 

And prayer upon the cross. 



More than your schoolmen teach, within 
Myself, alas ! I know : 3° 

Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, 
Too small the merit show. 

I bow my forehead to the dust, 

I veil mine eyes for shame. 
And urge, in trembling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies, 

I feel the guilt within ; 
I hear, with groan and travail-cries. 

The world confess its sin. 4o 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things, 
And tossed by storm and flood, 

To one fixed trust my spirit clings; 
I know that God is good ! 

Not mine to look where cherubim 

And seraphs may not see, 
But nothing can be good in Him 

Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that pains my soul below 
I dare not throne above, 5° 

I know not of his hate, — I know 
His goodness and his love. 

I dimly guess from blessings known 

Of greater out of sight, 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments too are right. 

I long for household voices gone, 

For vanished smiles I long, 
But God hath led my dear ones on. 

And He can do no wrong. ^ 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise. 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 

And if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain, 
The bruised reed He will not break. 

But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my own I have, 

Nor works my faith to prove; 7o 

I can but give the gifts He gave. 
And plead his love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

I wait the muffled oar ; 
No harm from Him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 






JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



269 



I know not where his islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air; 
I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond his love and care. 8° 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain, 

If hopes like these betray, 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 

The sure and safer way. 

And thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen 

Thy creatures as they be. 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My human heart on Thee ! 

1865? 

From SNOW-BOUND i 
A Winter Idyl 
TO THE MEMORY OF THE HOUSEHOLD 
IT DESCRIBES THIS POEM IS DEDI- 
CATED BY THE AUTHOR 

As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the 
dark, so Good Spirits, which be Angels of Light, 
are augmented not only by the Divine light of 
the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire; 
and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark 
spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the 
same. — Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book 
I. ch. V. 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky. 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields. 
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Emerson. The Snow Storm. 

The sun that brief December day 
Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 
And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
A sadder light than waning moon. 

* The inmates of the family at the Whittier 
homestead who are referred to in the poem were 
my father, mother, my brother and two sisters, 
and my uncle and aunt, both unmarried. In 
addition, there was the district school-master, 
who boarded with us 

In my boyhood, in our lonely farm-house, we 
had scanty sources of information; few books 
and only a small weekly newspaper. Our only 
annual was the Almanac. Under such circum- 
stances story-telling was a necessary resource in. 
the long winter evenings. My father when a 
young man had traversed the wilderness to 
Canada, and could tell us of his adventures with 
Indians and wild beasts, and of his sojourn in 
the French villages. My uncle was ready with 
his record of hunting and fishing and, it must 
be confessed, with stories, which he at least 
half believed, of witchcraft and apparitions. My 
mother, who was born in the Indian-haunted 
region of Somersworth, New Hampshire, be- 
tween Dover and Portsmouth, told us of the 



Slow tracing down the thickening sky 

Its mute and ominous prophecy, 

A portent seeming less than threat, 

It sank from sight before it set. 

A chill no coat, however stout, 

Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, lo 

A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 

Of life-blood in the sharpened face. 

The coming of the snow-storm told. 

The wind blew east; we heard the roar 

Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 

And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 

Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 



Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — 
Brought in the wood from out of doors, ^o 
Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows : 
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
And, sharply clashing horn on horn. 
Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut bows; 
While, peering from his early perch 
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
The cock his crested helmet bent 
And down his querulous challenge sent. 3o 



Unwarmed by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 
A night made hoary with the swarm 
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
As zigzag, wavering to and fro, 
Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
And ere the early bedtime came 
The white drift piled the window-frame. 
And through the glass the clothes-hne 

posts 
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 4o 

inroads of the savages, and the narrow escape 
of her ancestors. She described strange people 
who lived on the Piscataqua and Cocheco, among 
whom was Bantam the sorcerer. I have in my 
possession the wizard's "conjuring book," which 
he solemnly opened when consulted. It is a 
copy of Cornelius Agrippa's Magic, printed in 
1651, dedicated to Dr. Robert Child, who, like 
Michael Scott, had learned 

the art of glammorie 
In Padua beyond the sea, 

and who is famous in the annals of Massa- 
chusetts, where he was at one time a resident, 
as the first man who dared petition the General 
Court for liberty of conscience. The full title 
of the book is Three Books of Occult Phi- 
losophy, by Henry Cornelius Agrippa, Knight, 
Doctor of both Laws Counsellor to Ccesar's 
Sacred Majesty and Judge of Prerogative Court. 
(^Author's Note.) 



270 



AMERICAN POETRY 



So all night long the storm roared on : 

The morning broke without a sun ; 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 

Of Nature's geometric signs, 

In starry flake, and pellicle, 

All day the hoary meteor fell; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown, 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent so 

The blue walls of the firmament. 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sights of ours 

Took marvellous shapes ; strange domes 

and towers 
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood; 
A smooth white mound the brush-pile 

showed, 
A fenceless drift what once was road; 
The bridle-post an old man sat ^ 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 
And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
Our father wasted : "Boys, a path !" 
Well pleased (for when did farmer boy 
Count such a summons less than joy?) 
Our buskins on our feet we drew; 7° 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low. 
To guard our necks and ears from snow, 
We cut the solid whiteness through. 
And, where the drift was deepest, made 
A tunnel walled and overlaid 
With dazzling crystal : we had read 
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave. 
And to our own his name we gave, 
With many a wish the luck were ours 
To test his lamp's supernal powers. 80 

We reached the barn with merry din, 
And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
The old horse thrust his long head out, 
And grave with wonder gazed about; 
The cock his lusty greeting said. 
And forth his speckled harem led; 
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked. 
And mild reproach of hunger looked; 
The horned patriarch of the sheep, 
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, 9° 
Shook his sage head with gesture mute. 
And emphasized with stamp of foot. 

All day the gusty north-wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before; 



Low circling round its southern zone, 
The sun through dazzling snow - mist 

shone. ■ 
No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
To the savage air, no social smoke 
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 
A solitude made more intense ^°° 

By dreary-voiced elements, 
The shrieking of the mindless wind. 
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
And on the. glass the unmeaning beat 
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 
Beyond the circle of our hearth 
No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
Unbound the spell, and testified 
Of human life and thought outside. 
We minded that the sharpest ear "o 

The buried brooklet could not hear, 
The music of whose liquid lip 
Had been to us companionship. 
And, in our lonely life, had grown 
To have an almost human tone. 

As night drew on, and, from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
From sight beneath the smothering bank. 
We piled, with care, our nightly stack 120 
Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
And on its top the stout back-stick; 
The knotty forestick laid apart. 
And filled between with curious art 
The ragged brush; then, hovering near. 
We watched the first red blaze appear, 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam. 
Until the old, rude-furnished room 13° 
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; 
While radiant with a mimic flame 
Outside the sparkling drift became, 
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing 

free. 
The crane and pendent trammels showed. 
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed; 
While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
The meaning of the miracle, '39 

Whispered the old rhyme : "Under the tree. 
When fire outdoors hums merrily. 
There the witches are making tea." 

The moon above the eastern wood 
Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
Transfigured in the silver flood. 
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
Dead white, save where some sharp 

ravine 
Took shadow, or the sombre green 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



271 



Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
Against the whiteness at their back. iSo 
For such a world and such a night 
Most fitting that unwarming light, 
Which only seemed where'er it fell 
To make the coldness visible. 
Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat; 16° 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed. 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed; 
The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
And, for the winter fireside meet. 
Between the andirons' straddling feet, 170 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row, 
And, close at hand, the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 

We sped the time with stories old, 
Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told. 
Or stammered from our school-book lore 
"The Chief of Gambia's golden shore." i 
How often since, when all the land 
Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand. 
As if a far-blown trumpet stirred 
The languorous sin-sick air, I heard : 
"Does not the voice of reason cry, 220 

Claim the first right which Nature gave, 
From the red scourg-e of bondage fly, 

Nor deign to live a burdened slave!" 
Our father rode again his ride 
On Memphremagog's wooded side; 
Sat down again to moose and samp 
In trapper's hut and Indian camp; 
Lived o'er the old idyllic ease 
Beneath St. Frangois' hemlock-trees; 
Again for him the moonlight shone ^3° 
On Norman cap and bodiced zone; 
Again he heard the violin play 
Which led the village dance away. 
And mingled in its merry whirl 
The grandam and the laughing girl. 
Or, nearer home, our steps he led 
Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 

^ "The African Chief" was the title of a poem 
by Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Morton, wife of the 
Hon. Perez Morton, a former attorney-general 
of Massachusetts. Mrs. Morton's nom de plume 
was Philenia. The school-boolc in which "The 
African Chief" was printed was Caleb Bing- 
ham's The American Preceptor. {Author's Note.) 



Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; 
Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths 
along 240 

The low green prairies of the sea. 
We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, 

And round the rocky Isles of Shoals 

The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals; 
The chowder on the sand-beach made, 
Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot 
With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. 
We heard the tales of witchcraft old. 
And dream and sign and marvel told 
To sleepy listeners as they lay 250 

Stretched idly on the salted hay, 
Adrift along the winding shores. 
When favoring breezes deigned to blow 
The square sail of the gundelow 
And idle lay the useless oars. 

Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel. 
Told how the Indian hordes came down 
At midnight on Cocheco town. 
And how her own great-uncle bore 260 
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 
Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
So rich and picturesque and free 
(The common unrhymed poetry 
Of simple life and country ways), 
The story of her early days, — 
She made us welcome to her home; 
Old hearths grew wide to give us room; 
We stole with her a frightened look 
At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 270 
The fame whereof went far and wide 
Through all the simple country-side ; 
We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
The loon's weird laughter far away; 
We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 
What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down. 
Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 280 
The ducks' black squadron anchored lay. 
And heard the wild-geese calling loud 
Beneath the gray November cloud. 

Clasp, Angel of the backward look 
And folded wings of ashen gray 
And voice of echoes far away. 
The brazen covers of thy book; 
The weird palimpsest old and vast, 
Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; 720 
Where, closely mingling, pale and glow 
The characters of joy and woe; 
The monographs of outlived years. 
Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 



272 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Green hills of life that slope to death, 
And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
Shade off to mournful cypresses 

With the white amaranths underneath. 
Even while I look, I can but heed 

The restless sands' incessant fall, 73° 
Importunate hours that hours succeed, 
Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 

And duty keeping pace with all. 
Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; 
I hear again the voice that bids 
The dreamer leave his dream midway 
For larger hopes and graver fears; 
Life greatens in these later years, 
The century's aloe flowers to-day! 

Yet, haply, in some lull of life, 74o 

Some Truce of God which breaks its strife. 
The worldling's eyes shall gather dew, 

Dreaming in throngful city ways 
Of winter joys his boyhood knew; 
And dear and early friends — the few 
Who yet remain — shall pause to view 

These Flemish pictures of old days; 
Sit with me by the homestead hearth. 
And stretch the hands of memory forth 

To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze ! 
And thanks untraced to lips unknown 7Si 
Shall greet me like the odors blown 
From unseen meadows newly mown, 
Or lilies floating in some pond, 
Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond; 
The traveller owns the grateful sense 
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence 
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
The benediction of the air. 

1865. Separately published, 1866. 



OUR MASTER i 

Immortal Love, forever full, 

Forever flowing free. 
Forever shared, forever whole, 

A never-ebbing sea ! 

Out outward lips confess the name 

All other names above ; 
Love only knoweth whence it came 

And comprehendeth love. 

Blow, winds of God, awake, and blow 
The mists of earth away! lo 

Shine out, O Light Divine, and show 
How wide and far we stray ! 

^ Five well-known hymns are taken from this 
poem. 



Hush every lip, close every book, 
The strife of tongues forbear; 

Why forward reach, or backward look. 
For love that clasps like air? 

We may not climb the heavenly steeps 
To bring the Lord Christ down : 

In vain we search the lowest deeps. 
For Him no depths can drown. 20 

Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape, 

The lineaments restore 
Of Him we know in outward shape 

And in the flesh no more. 

He Cometh not a king to reign; 

The world's long hope is dim; 
The weary centuries watch in vain 

The clouds of heaven for Him. 

Death comes, life goes; the asking eye 
And ear are answerless; 3° 

The grave is dumb, the hollow sky 
Is sad with silentness. 

The letter fails, and systems fall, 

And every symbol wanes; 
The Spirit over-brooding all 

Eternal Love remains. 

And not for signs in heaven above 

Or earth below they look. 
Who know with John His smile of love. 

With Peter His rebuke. 40 

In joy of inward peace, or sense 

Of sorrow over sin. 
He is His own best evidence. 

His witness is within. 

No fable old, nor mythic lore, 
Nor dream of bards and seers, 

No dead fact stranded on the shore 
Of the oblivious years;— 

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet 

A present help is He; 5° 

And faith has still its Olivet 
And love its Galilee. 

The healing of His seamless dress 

Is by our beds of pain; 
We touch Him in life's throng and press. 

And we are whole again. 

Through Him the first fond prayers are 
said 

Our lips of childhood frame. 
The last low whispers of our dead 

Are burdened with His name. 60 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



273 



Our Lord and Master of us all! 

Whate'er our name or sign, 
We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call. 

We test our lives by Thine. 

Thou judgest us; Thy purity 

Doth all our lusts condemn; 
The love that draws us nearer Thee 

lo hot with wrath to them. 

Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight; 

And, naked to Thy glance, 7° 

Our secret sins are in the light 

Of Thy pure countenance. 

Thy healing pains, a keen distress 

Thy tender light shines in; 
Thy sweetness is the bitterness, 

Thy grace the pang of sin. 

Yet, weak and blinded though we be, 

Thou dost our service own ; 
We bring our varying gifts to Thee, 

And Thou rejectest none. 8° 

To Thee our full humanity, 

Its joys and pains, belong; 
The wrong of man to man on Thee 

Inflicts a deeper wrong. 

Who hates, hates Thee ; who loves be- 
comes 

Therein to Thee allied; 
All sweet accords of hearts and homes 

In Thee are multiplied. 

Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine, 

Within our earthly sod. 
Most human and yet most divine, 

The flower of man and God! 

O Love! O Life! Our faith and sight 

Thy presence maketh one 
As through transfigured clouds of white 

We trace the noon-day sun. 

So, to our mortal eyes subdued, 
Flesh-veiled, but not concealed. 

We know in Thee the fatherhood 
And heart of God revealed. loo 

We faintly hear, we dimly see, 
In differing phrase we pray; 

But, dim or clear, we own in Thee 
The Light, the Truth, the Way! 



The homage that we render Thee 

Is still our Father's own; 
No jealous claim or rivalry 

Divides the Cross and Throne. 

To do Thy will is more than praise. 
As words are less than deeds, ii° 

And simple trust can find Thy ways 
We miss with chart of creeds. 

No pride of self Thy service hath, 

No place for me and mine; 
Our human strength is weakness, death 

Our life, apaft from Thine. 

Apart from Thee all gain is loss, 

All labor vainly done ; 
The solemn shadow of Thy Cross 

Is better than the sun. i^o 

Alone, O Love ineffable! 

Thy saving name is given; 
To turn aside from Thee is hell, 

To walk with Thee is heaven ! 

How vain, secure in all Thou art, 

Our noisy championship ! 
The sighing of the contrite heart 

Is more than flattering lip. 

Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, 

Nor Thine the zealot's ban; 130 

Thou well canst spare a love of Thee 
Which ends in hate of man. 

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, 
What may Thy service be? — 

Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word, 
But simply following Thee. 

We bring no ghastly holocaust. 

We pile no graven stone; 
He serves Thee best who loveth most 

His brothers and Thy own. 140 

Thy litanies, sweet offices 

Of love and gratitude; 
Thy sacramental liturgies. 

The joy of doing good. 

In vain shall waves of incense drift 

The vaulted nave around; 
In vain the minster turret lift 

Its brazen weights of sound. 

The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells, 
Thy inward altars raise ; _ ^so 

Its faith and hope Thy canticles. 
And its obedience praise ! 

1866. 



274 



AMERICAN POETRY 



ABRAHAM DAVENPORT i 

In the old days (a custom laid aside 
With breeches and cocked hats) the peo- 
ple sent 
Their wisest men to make the public laws. 
And so, from a brown homestead, where 

the Sound 
Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, 
Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, 
And hallowed by pure hves and tranquil 

deaths, 
Stamford sent up to the councils of the 

State 
Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 

'Twas on a May-day of the far old year 

Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell 

Over the bloom and sweet life of the 
Spring, II 

Over the fresh earth and the heaven of 
noon, 

A horror of great darkness, like the night 

In day of which the Norland sagas tell, — - 

The Twilight of the Gods. The low- 
hung sky 

Was black with ominous clouds, save 
where its rim 

Was fringed with a dull glow, like that 
which climbs 

The crater's sides from the red hell be- 
low. 

Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn- 
yard fowls '° 

Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars 

Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on 
leathern wings 

Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died; 

Men prayed, and women wept; all ears 
grew sharp 

To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet 
shatter 

The black sky, that the dreadful face of 
Christ 

Might look from the rent clouds, not as 
He looked 

A loving guest at Bethany, but stern 

As Justice and inexorable Law. 

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim 
as ghosts, 30 

Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, 
Trembling beneath their legislative robes. 

^ The famous Dark Day of New England, May 
19. 1780, was a physical puzzle for many years 
to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought some- 
thing more than philosophical speculation into the 
minds of those who passed through it. The inci- 
dent of Colonel Abraham Davenport's sturdy 
protest is a matter of history. . (Author's Note.) 



"It is the Lord's Great Day ! Let us ad-' 
journ," 

Some said; and then, as if with one ac- 
cord. 

All eyes were turned to Abraham Daven- 
port. 

He rose, slow cleaving with his steady 

voice ^j 

The intolerable hush. "This well may be W 

The Day of Judgment which the world 
awaits ; 

But be it so or not, I only know 

My present duty, and my Lord's com- 
mand 40 

To occupy till He come. So at the post 

Where He hath set me in His providence, 

I choose, for one, to meet Him face to 
face,^ 

No faithless servant frightened from my 
task. 

But ready when the Lord of the harvest 
calls ; 

And therefore, with all reverence, I would 
say, 

Let God do His work, we will see to 
ours. 

Bring in the candles." And they brought 
them in. 

Then by the flaring lights the Speaker 
read. 
Albeit with husky voice and shaking 
hands, 5° 

An act to amend an act to regulate 
The shad- and alewive fisheries. Where- 
upon 
Wisely and well spake Abraham Daven- 
port, 
Straight to the question, with no figures 

of speech 
Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without 
The shrewd dry humor natural to the 

man : 
His awe-struck colleagues listening all 

the while 
Between the pauses of his argument. 
To hear the thunder of the wrath of God 
Break from the hollow trumpet of the 
cloud. 60 

And there he stands in memory to this 

day, 
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen 
Against the background of unnatural 

dark, 
A witness to the ages as they pass, 
That simple duty hath no place for fear. 

The Atlantic Monthly, May, 1866. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

(1819-1891) 



"I WOULD NOT HAVE THIS PER- 
FECT LOVE OF OURS" 

I would not have this perfect love of ours 
Grow from a single root, a single stem, 
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers 
That idly hide life's iron diadem: 
It should grow always like that Eastern 

tree 
Whose limbs take root and spread forth 

constantly ; 
That love for one, from which there doth 

not spring 
Wide love for all, is but a worthless 

thing. 
Not in another world, as poets prate. 
Dwell we apart above the tide 6f things, i° 
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery 

wings ; 
But our pure love doth ever elevate 
Into a holy bond of brotherhood 
All earthly things, making them pure and 

good. 

1840. 

"FOR THIS TRUE NOBLENESS I 
SEEK IN VAIN" 

"For this true nobleness I seek in vain, 
In woman and in man I find it not; 
I almost weary of my earthly lot, 
My life-springs are dried up with burning 

pain." 
Thou find'st it not? I pray thee look 

again, 
Look inward through the depths of thine 

own soul. 
How is it with thee? Art thou sound and 

whole? 
Doth narrow search show thee no earthly 

stain? 
Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies 
In other men, sleeping, but never dead, i" 
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own ; 
Then wilt thou see it gleam in many 

eyes. 
Then will pure light around thy path be 

shed, 
And thou wilt nevermore be sad and lone. 
1840. 1840. 



"MY LOVE, I HAVE NO FEAR 
THAT THOU SHOULDST DIE" 

My Love, I have no fear that thou 

shouldst die; 
Albeit I ask no fairer life than this. 
Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle 

kiss, 
While Time and Peace with hands en- 
locked fly; 
Yet care I not where in Eternity 
We live and love, well knowing that there is 
No backward step for those who feel the 

bliss 
Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings 

high : 
Love hath so purified my being's core, 
Meseems I scarcely should be startled, 

even, lo 

To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone 

before; 
Since, with thy love, this knowledge too 

was given. 
Which each calm day doth strengthen 

more and more. 
That they who love are but one step from 

Heaven. 
1841. In "Poems," 1844. 



"OUR LOVE IS NOT A FADING 
EARTHLY FLOWER" 

Our love is not a fading earthly flower : 
Its winged seed dropped down from Para- 
dise, 
And, nursed by day and night, by sun 

and shower, 
Doth momently to fresher beauty rise : 
To us the leafless autumn is not bare, 
Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty 

green. 
Our summer hearts make summer's ful- 
ness, where 
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen : 
For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie. 
Love, — whose forgetfulness is beauty's 
death, _ lo 

Whose mystic key these cells of Thou 
and I 



275 



276 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Into the infinite freedom openeth, 

And makes the body's dark and narrow 

grate 
The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's own 

palace-gate. 

1842. In "Poems," 1844. 



THE SHEPHERD OF KING 
' ADMETUS 

There came a youth upon the earth, 

Some thousand years ago, 
Whose slender hands were nothing worth, 
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. 

Upon an empty tortoise-shell 

He stretched some chords, and drew 
Music that made men's bosoms swell 
Fearless, or brimmed their eyes wich dew. 

Then King Admetus, one who had 

Pure taste by right divine, lo 

Decreed his singing not too bad 
To hear between the cups of wine : 

And so, well pleased with being soothed 

Into a sweet half-sleep, 
Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, 
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. 

His words were simple words enough, 

And yet he used them so. 
That what in other mouths was rough 
In his seemed musical and low. ^° 

Men called him but a shiftless youth. 

In whom no good they saw ; 
And yet, unwittingly, in truth. 
They made his careless words their law. 

They knew not how he learned at all. 

For idly, hour by hour, 
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, 
Or mused upon a common flower. 

It seemed the loveliness of things 

Did teach him all their use, 3° 

For, in mere weeds, and stones, and 

springs. 
He found a healing power profuse. 

Men granted that his speech was wise, 

But, when a glance they caught 
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, 
They laughed, and called him good-for- 
naught. 



1 



Yet after he was dead and gone. 

And e'en his memory dim, 
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, 
More full of love, because of him. 4" 

And day by day more holy grew 
Each spot where he had trod, 
Till after-poets only knew 
Their first-born brother as a god. 

Boston Miscellany, 1842. 

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD 
CAR 

He spoke of Burns : men rude and 

rough 
Pressed round to hear the praise of one 
Whose heart was made of manly, simple 
stuff, 
As homespun as their own. 

And, when he read, they forward leaned. 
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears. 
His brook-like songs whom glory never 
weaned 
From humble smiles and tears. 

Slowly there grew a tender awe, 
Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, lo 
As if in him who read they felt and saw 
Some presence of the bard. 

It was a sight for sin and wrong 
And slavish tyranny to see, 
A sight to make our faith more pure and 
strong 
In high humanity. 

I thought, these men will carry hence 
Promptings their former life above, 
And something of a finer reverence 

For beauty, truth, and love. 20 

God scatters love on every side 
Freely among His children all, 
And always hearts are lying open wide, 
Wherein some grains may fall. 

There is no wind but soweth seeds 
Of a more true and open fife, 
Which burst, unlooked for, into high- 
souled deeds, 
With wayside beauty rife. 

We find within these souls of ours 
Some wild germs of a higher birth, 3° 
Which in the poet's tropic heart bear 
flowers 
Whose fragrance fills the earth. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



277 



Within the hearts of all men lie 
These promises of wider bliss, 
Which blossom into hopes that cannot 
die, 
In sunny hours like this. 

All that hath been majestical 
In life or death, since time began, 
Is native in the simple heart of all. 

The angel heart of man. 4o 

And thus, among the untaught poor, 
Great deeds and feehngs find a home. 
That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
Of classic Greece and Rome. 

O mighty brother-soul of man. 
Where'er thou art, in low or high, 
Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
O'er-roof infinity ! 

Air thoughts that mould the age begin 
Deep down within the primitive soul, _ So 
And from the many slowly upward win 
To one who grasps the whole: 



It may be glorious to write 
Thoughts that shall glad the two or 
three 
High souls, like those far stars that come 
in sight 
Once in a century; — 

But better far it is to speak 
One simple word, which now and then 
Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
And friendless sons of men; 80 

To write some earnest verse or line, 
Which, seeking not the praise of art. 
Shall make a clearer faith and manhood 
shine 
In the untutored heart. 

He who doth this, in verse or prose. 
May be forgotten in his day. 
But surely shall be crowned at last with 
those 
Who live and speak for aye. 



1842. 



Democratic Review, Oct., 1842. 



In his wide brain the feeling deep 
That struggled on the many's tongue 
Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges 
leap 
O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 

All thought begins in feeling,— wide 
In the great mass its base is hid. 
And, narrowing up to thought, stands 
glorified, 
A moveless pyramid. 60 

Nor is he far astray, who deems 
That every hope, which rises and grows 
broad 
In the world's heart, by ordered impulse 
streams 
From the great heart of God. 

God wills, man hopes : in common souls 
Hope is but vague and undefined, 
Till from the poet's tongue the message 
rolls 
A blessing to his kind. 

Never did Poesy appear 
So full of heaven to me, as when 7o 
I saw how it would pierce through pride 
and fear 
To the lives of coarsest men. 



SONG 

O moonlight deep and tender, 
A year and more agone, 

Your mist of golden splendor 
Round my betrothal shone ! 



O elm-leaves dark and dewy. 

The very same ye seem, 
The low wind trembles through ye, 

Ye murmur in my dream ! 

O river, dim with distance, 

Flow thus forever by, 
A part of my existence 

Within your heart doth lie ! 

O stars, ye saw our meeting. 

Two beings and one soul, 
Two hearts so madly beating 

To mingle and be whole ! 

O happy night, deliver 

Her kisses back to me, 
Or keep them all, and give her 

A blissful dream of me! 



1842. 



In "Poems," 1844. 



278 



AMERICAN POETRY 



WENDELL PHILLIPS 

He stood upon the world's broad thresh- 
old ; wide 
The din of battle and of slaughter rose; 
He saw God stand upon the weaker side, 
That sank in seeming loss before its foes : 
Many there were who made great haste 

and sold 
Unto the cunning enemy their swords, 
He scorned their gifts of fame, and 

power, and gold, 
And, underneath their soft and flowery 

words, 
Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he 

went 
And humbly joined him to the weaker 
part, 10 

Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content 
So he could be the nearer to God's heart. 
And feel its solemn pulses sending blood 
Through all the widespread veins of end- 
less good. 

In "Poems," 1844. 



TO THE DANDELION 

Dear common flower, that grow'st be- 
side the way. 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless 
gold. 
First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and full of pride 
uphold. 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that 
they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
Which not the rich earth's ample 
round 
May match in wealth, thou art more 

dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms 
may be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Span- 
ish prow 1° 
Through the primeval hush of Indian 
seas. 
Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 
'T is the Spring's largess, which she 
scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
Though most hearts never under- 
stand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded 
eye. 



Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
The eyes thou givest me 21 

Are in the heart, and heed not space or 
time : 
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravish- 
ment 
In the white lily's breezy tent. 
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles 
burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the 
grass. 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle 
graze. 
Where, as the breezes pass, 3° 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand 
ways. 
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy 
mass. 
Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
That from the distance sparkle 
through 
Some woodland gap, and of a sky 

above, 
Where one white cloud like a stray 
lamb doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are 
linked with thee; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's 
song. 
Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day 
long, ^ 40 

And I, secure in childish piety, 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he 
could bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears 
When birds and flowers and I were 
happy peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem. 
When, thou, for all thy gold, so common 
'art ! 
Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 
Since each reflects in joy its scanty 
gleam so 

Of heaven, and could some wondrous 
secret show. 
Did we but pay the love we owe. 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom 

look 
On all these living pages of God's book. 

1844? Graham's Magazine, Jan., 1845. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



279 



COLUMBUS 

The cordage creaks and rattles in the 

wind, 
With whims of sudden hush; the reehng 

sea 
Now thumps like solid rock beneath the 

stern, 
Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes 

short, and falling, 
Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rustling 

down 
The broad backs of the waves, which 

jostle and crowd 
To fling themselves upon that unknown 

shore. 
Their used familiar since, the dawn of 

time, 
Whither this foredoomed life is guided on 
To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring 

poise 1° 

One glittering moment, then to break ful- 
filled. 

How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing. 
The melancholy wash of endless waves, 
The sigh of some grim monster unde- 

scried, 
Fear-painted on the canvas of the dark, 
Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine! 
Yet night brings more companions than 

the day 
To this drear waste; new constellations 

burn, 
And fairer stars, with whose calm height 

my soul 
Finds nearer sympathy than with my 

herd 20 

Of earthen souls, whose vision's scanty 

ring 
Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings 
Against the cold bars of their unbelief, 
Knowing in vain my own free heaven 

beyond. 
O God ! this world, so crammed with 

eager life, 
That comes and goes and wanders back 

to silence 
Like the idle wind, which yet man's shap- 
ing mind 
Can make his drudge to swell the longing 

sails 
Of highest endeavor, — this mad, unthrift 

world, 
Which, every hour, throws life enough 

away 3° 

To make her deserts kind and hospitable, 
Lets her great destinies be waved aside 
By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, 



Who weigh the God they not believe with 

gold. 
And find no spot in Judas, save that he. 
Driving a duller bargain than he ought. 
Saddled his guild with too cheap prece- 
dent. 
O Faith ! if thou art strong, thine opposite 
Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer 
Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through the 

arm 4° 

Just lifted to achieve its croAvning deed. 
And made the firm-based heart, that 

would have quailed 
The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf 
Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its 

stem. 
The wicked and the weak, by some dark 

law. 
Have a strange power to shut and rivet 

down 
Their own horizon round us, to unwing 
Our heaven-aspiring visions, and to blur 
With surly clouds the Future's gleaming 

peaks. 
Far seen across the brine of thankless 

years. 5° 

If the chosen soul could never be alone 
In deep mid-silence, open-doored to God, 
No greatness ever had been dreamed or 

done ; 
Among dull hearts a prophet never grew; 
The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude. 

The old world is effete; there man with 

man 
Jostles, and, in the brawl for means to 

live. 
Life is trod underfoot, — Life, the one 

block 
Of marble that 's vouchsafed wherefrom 

to carve 
Our great thoughts, white and godlike, to 

shine down 6° 

The future, Life, the irredeemable block, 
Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars. 
Scanting our room to cut the features out 
Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown 
With a mean head the perfect limbs, or 

leave 
The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's 

trunk, 
Failure's brief epitaph. 

Yes, Europe's world 
Reels on to judgment; there the common 

need. 
Losing God's sacred use, to be a bond 
'Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one scowl- 

ingly 70 



280 



AMERICAN POETRY 



O'er his own selfish hoard at bay; no 

state, 
Knit strongly with eternal fibres up 
Of all men's separate and united weals, 
Self-poised and sole as stars, yet one as 

light, 
Holds up a shape of large Humanity 
To which by natural instinct every man 
Pays loyalty exulting, by which all 
Mould their own lives, and feel their 

pulses filled 
With the red, fiery blood of the general 

fife. 
Making them mighty in peace, as now in 

war 80 

They are, even in the flush of victory, 

weak 
Conquering that manhood which should 

them subdue. 
And what gift bring I to this untried 

world? 
Shall the same tragedy be played anew. 
And the same lurid curtain drop at last 
On one dread desolation, one fierce crash 
Of that recoil which on its makers God 
Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger make. 
Early or late? Or shall that common- 
wealth 
Whose potent unity and concentric force 
Can draw these scattered joints and parts 

of men 91 

Into a whole ideal man once more. 
Which sucks not from its limbs the life 

away. 
But sends it flood-tide and creates itself 
Over again in every citizen. 
Be there built up? For me, I have no 

choice ; 
I might turn back to other destinies. 
For one sincere key opes all Fortune's 

doors; 
But whoso answers not God's earliest call 
Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme ^°° 
Of lying open to his genius 
Which makes the wise heart certain of its 

ends. 

Here am I ; for what end God knows, not 

I; _ 

Westward still points the inexorable soul : 
Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea, 
The beating heart of this great enterprise, 
Which, without me, would stiffen in swift 

death ; 
This have I mused on, since mine eye 

could first 
Among the stais distinguish and with joy 
Rest on that God- fed Pharos of the 

north, "0 



On some blue promontory of heaven || 

lighted f\ 

That juts far out into the upper sea; 
To this one hope my heart hath clung for 

years. 
As would a foundling to the talisman 
Hung round his neck by hands he knew 

not whose; 
A poor, vile thing and dross to all beside, 
Yet he therein can feel a virtue left 
By the sad pressure of a mother's hand. 
And unto him it still is tremulous 
With palpitating haste and wet with 

tears, _ ^-° 

The key to him of hope and humanness. 
The coarse shell of life's pearl, Expec- 
tancy. 
This hope hath been to me for love and 

fame, 
Hath made me wholly lonely on the earth. 
Building me up as in a thick-ribbed tower. 
Wherewith enwalled my watching spirit 

burned. 
Conquering its little island from the Dark, 
Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard men's 

steps. 
In the far hurry of the outward world. 
Pass dimly forth and back, sounds heard 

in dream. ^3° 

As Ganymede by the eagle was snatched 

up 
P>om the gross sod to be Jove's cup- 
bearer, 
So was I lifted by my great design : 
And who hath trod Olympus, from his 

eye 
Fades not that broader outlook of the 

gods; 
His life's low valleys overbrow earth's 

clouds. 
And that Olympian spectre of the past 
Looms towering up in sovereign memory. 
Beckoning his soul from meaner heights 

of doom. 
Had but the shadow of the Thunderer's 

bird, 140 

Flashing athwart my spirit, made of me 
A swift-betraying vision's Ganymede, 
Yet to have greatly dreamed precludes low 

ends; 
Great days have ever such a morning-red, 
On -such a base great futures are built up, 
And aspiration, though not put in act. 
Comes back to ask its plighted troth again, 
Still watches round its grave the unlaid 

ghost 
Of a dead virtue, and makes other hopes, 
Save that implacable one, seem thin and 

bleak iso 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



281 



As shadows of bare trees upon the snow, 
Bound freezing there by the unpitying 
moon. 

While other youths perplexed their man- 
dolins, 
Praying that Thetis would her fingers 

twine 
In the loose glories of her lover's hair, 
And wile another kiss to keep back day, 
I, stretched beneath the many-centuried 

shade 
Of some writhed oak, the wood's La- 

ocoon, 
Did of my hope a dryad mistress make, 
Whom I would woo to meet me privily, i6o 
Or underneath the stars, or when the 

moon 
Flecked all the forest floor with scat- 
tered pearls. 

days whose memory tames to fawning 

down 
The surly fell of Ocean's bristled neck! 

1 know not when this hope enthralled me 

first, 
But from my boyhood up I loved to hear 
The tall pine-forests of the Apennine 
Murmur their hoary legends of the sea. 
Which hearing, I in vision clear beheld 
The sudden dark of tropic night shut 

down 170 

O'er the huge whisper of great watery 

wastes, 
The while a pair of herons trailingly 
Flapped inland, where some league-wide 

river hurled 
The yellow spoil of unconjectured realms 
Far through a gulf's green silence, never 

scarred 
By any but the North-wind's hurrying 

keels. 
And not the pines alone; all sights and 

sounds 
To my world-seeking heart paid fealty. 
And catered for it as the Cretan bees 
Brought honey to the baby Jupiter, 180 
Who in his soft hand crushed a violet, 
Godlike foremusing the rough thunder's 

gripe ; 
Then did I entertain the poet's song, 
My great Idea's guest, and, passing o'er 
That iron bridge the Tuscan built to hell, 
I heard Ulysses tell of mountain-chains 
Whose adamantine links, his manacles. 
The western main shook growling, and 

still gnawed. 
I brooded on the wise Athenian's tale 



Of happy Atlantis, and heard Bjorne's 

keel 190 

Crunch the gray pebbles of the Vinland 

shore : 
I listened, musing, to the prophecy 
Of Nero's tutor-victim; lo, the birds 
Sing darkling, conscious of the climbing 

dawn. 
And I believed the poets; it is they 
Who utter wisdom from the central deep. 
And, listening to the inner flow of things, 
Speak to the age out of eternity. 

Ah me ! old hermits sought for solitude 
In caves and desert places of the earth, 200 
Where their own heart-beat was the only 

stir 
Of living thing that comforted the year; 
But the bald pillar-top of Simeon, 
In midnight's blankest waste, were popu- 
lous, 
Matched with the isolation drear and deep 
Of him who pines among the swarm of 

men. 
At once a new thought's king and pris- 
oner. 
Feeling the truer life within his life, 
The fountain of his spirit's prophecy, 209 
Sinking away and wasting, drop by drop. 
In the ungrateful sands of sceptic ears, 
He in the palace-aisles of untrod woods 
Doth walk a king ; for him the pent-up 

cell 
Widens beyond the circles of the stars. 
And all the sceptred spirits of the past 
Come thronging in to greet him as their 

peer; 
But in the market-place's glare and throng 
He sits apart, an exile, and hi's brow 
Aches with the mocking memory of its 

crown. 
Yet to the spirit select there is no choice; 
He cannot say. This will I do, or that, 221 
For the cheap means putting Heaven's 

ends in pawn. 
And bartering his bleak rocks, the free- 
hold stern 
Of destiny's first-born, for smoother fields 
That yield no crop of self-denying will; 
A hand is stretched to him from out the 

dark. 
Which grasping without question, he is led 
Where there is work that he must do for 

God. • 
The trial still is the strength's comple- 
ment, 229 
And the uncertain, dizzy path that scales 
The sheer heights of supremest purposes 
Is steeper to the angel than the child. 



282 



AMERICAN POETRY 



1 



Chances have laws as fixed as planets 
have, 

And disappointment's dry and bitter root, 

Envy's harsh berries, and the choking pool 

Of the world's scorn, are the right mother- 
milk 

To the tough hearts that pioneer their 
kind. 

And break a pathway to those unknown 
realms 

That in the earth's broad shadow lie en- 
thralled; 

Endurance is the crowning quality, 240 

And patience all the passion of great 
hearts ; 

These are their stay, and when the leaden 
world 

Sets its hard face against their fateful 
thought, 

And brute strength, like the Gaulish con- 
queror, 

Clangs his huge glaive down in the other 
scale, 

The inspired soul but flings his patience 
in, 

And slowly that outweighs the ponderous 
globe, — 

One faith against a whole earth's unbelief. 

One soul against the flesh of all mankind. 

Thus ever seems it when my soul can 

hear 250 

The voice that errs not; then my triumph 

gleams, 
O'er the blank ocean beckoning, and all 

night 
My heart flies on before me as I sail; 
Far on I see my lifelong enterprise. 
That rose like Ganges 'mid the freezing 

snows 
Of a world's solitude, sweep broadening 

down, 
And, gathering to itself a thousand 

streams. 
Grow sacred ere it mingle with the sea; 
I see the ungated wall of chaos old, 
With blocks Cyclopean hewn of solid 

night, 260 

Fade like a wreath of unreturning mist 
Before the irreversible feet of light; — 
And lo, with what clear omen in the east 
On day's gray threshold stands the eager 

dawn, 
Like young Leander rosy from the sea 
Glowing at Hero's lattice ! 

One day more 
These muttering shoalbrains leave the 
helm to me : 



God, let me not in their dull ooze be 

stranded ; 
Let not this one frail bark, to hollow 

which 
I have dug out the pith and sinewy heart 
Of my aspiring life's fair trunk, be so 271 
Cast up to warp and blacken in the sun. 
Just as the opposing wind 'gins whistle 

off 
His cheek-swollen pack, and from the 

leaning mast 
Fortune's full sail strains forward ! 

One poor day ! — 
Remember whose and not how short it is ! 
It is God's day, it is Columbus's. 
A lavish day! One day, with life and 
heart, 278 

Is more than time enough to find a world. 



1844. 



In "Poems," 1848. 



THE CHANGELING I 

I had a little daughter, 

And she was given to me 
To lead me gently backward 

To the Heavenly Father's knee, 
That I, by the force of nature. 

Might in some dim wise divine 
The depth of His infinite patience 

To this wayward soul of mine. 

I know not how others saw her, 

But to me she was wholly fair, 1° 

And the light of the heaven she came 
from 

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; 
For it was as wavy and golden, 

And as many changes took. 
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples 

On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 

Upon me, her kneeling lover, 
How it leaped from her lips to her eye- 
lids, _ 

And dimpled her wholly over, 20 

Till her outstretched hands smiled also. 

And I almost seemed to see 
The very heart of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to me ! 

^ Blanche, Lowell's first child, was born in De- 
cember, 1845, and died in March, 1847. His 
second daughter, Mabel, was born in September, 
1847. See She Came and Went and The First 
Snow-fall. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



283 



She had been with us scarce a twelve- 
month, 

And it hardly seemed a. day, 
When a troop of wandering angels 

Stole my Httle daughter away; 
Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari 

But loosed the hampering strings, 30 
And when they had opened her cage-door, 

My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child, 
That seems hke her bud in full blossom. 

And smiles as she never smiled : 
When I wake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to lie, 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky. 40 

As weak, yet as trustful also; 

For the whole year long I see 
All the wonders of faithful Nature 

Still worked for the love of me; 
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, 

Rain falls, suns rise and set. 
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 

A poor little violet. 

This child is not mine as the first was, 

I cannot sing it to rest, 50 

I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bliss it upon my breast : 
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle 

And sits in my little one's chair. 
And the hght of the heaven she 's gone to 

Transfigures its golden hair. 

1847 In "Poems," 1849. 



SHE CAME AND WENT 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent. 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven. 
The blue dome's measureless content. 

So my soul held that moment's heaven; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 1° 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 
I only know she came and went. 



Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And life's last oil is nearly spent. 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 20 

1847? In "Poems," 1849. 

THE BIGLOW PAPERS 1 

FIRST SERIES 

No. I 
A LETTERS 

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO 
THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDI- 
TOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A 
POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW 

Jaylem, June 1846. 

Mister Eddyter, — Our Hosea wuz down 
to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin 
Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a 
hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a 
drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. 
the sarjunt he thout Hosea hed n't gut 
his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo 's 
though he 'd jest com down, so he cal'lated 
to hook him in, but Hosy wood n't take 
none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 
20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and 
eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and 
down on his shoulders and figureed onto 
his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater 
hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder 
out on. 

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal 
riled, and arter I 'd gone to bed I heern 
Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed 
Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she 
to me, ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee 's 
gut the chollery or suthin another ses 
she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he 's 
oney amakin pottery ^ ses i, he 's oilers 

^ "I only know that I believed our war with 
Mexico (though we had as just ground for it as 
a strong nation ever has against a weak one) to 
be essentially a war of false pretences, and that 
it would result in widening the boundaries and 
so prolong the life of slavery. . . . Against 
these and many other things I thought all honest 
men should protest." Lowell, in a letter to 
Thomas Hughes, September 13, 1859. 

2 The act of May 13, 1846, authorized Presi- 
dent Polk to employ the militia, and call out 
50,000 volunteers, if necessary. He immediately 
called for the full number of volunteers, asking 
Massachusetts for 777 men. 

^ Aut insanit, aut versos facit. H. W. (H. W. 
is Rev. Homer Wilbur, A.M. — Parson Wilbur — 
to whom Hosea submits his manuscripts for 
editing.) 



284 



AMERICAN POETRY 



on hand at that ere busynes like Da & 
martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, 
Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, 
hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot 
rite of to go reed his varses to Parson 
Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' 
book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back 
and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 
'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they 
wuz True grit. 

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em 
hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked 
off sum o' the last varses, but he told 
Hosee he did n't want to put his ore in 
to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz 
verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy 
ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex 
Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess 
Hosea kind o' did n't hear him, for I 
never hearn o' nobody o' that name in 
this villadge, and I 've lived here man 
and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, 
and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 
'n I be. 

If you print 'em I wish you 'd jest let 
folks know who hosy's father is, cos my 
ant Kezian used to say it 's nater to be 
curus ses she, she aint livin though and 
he 's a hkely kind o' lad. 

EZEKIEL BiGLOW. 



Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle 

On them kittle-drums o' yourn, — 
'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle 

Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; 
Put in stiff, you fifer feller. 

Let folks see how spry you be, — 
Guess you '11 toot till you are yeller 

'Fore you git ahold o' me ! 

Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten, 

Hope it aint your Sunday's best; — lo 
Fact ! it takes a sight o' cotton 

To stuff out a soger's chest : 
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, 

Ef you must wear humps like these, 
S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't, 

It would du ez slick ez grease. 

'T would n't suit them Southun fellers, 

They 're a dreffle graspin' set, 
We must oilers blow the bellers 

Wen they want their irons het; ^o 

May be it 's all right ez preachin'. 

But my narves it kind o' grates. 
Wen I see the overreachin' 

O' them nigger-drivin' States. 



Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, 

Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth 
(Helped by Yankee renegaders). 

Thru the vartu o' the North ! 
We begin to think it's nater 

To take sarse an' not be riled; — 3° 

Who'd expect to see a tater 

All on eend at bein' biled? 

Ez fer war, I call it murder, — 

There you hev it plain an' flat; 
I don't want to go no furder 

Than my Testyment fer that; 
God hez sed so plump an' fairly. 

It 's ez long ez it is broad. 
An' you 've gut to git up airly 

Ef you want to take in God. 4° 

'T aint your eppyletts an' feathers 

Make the thing a grain more right; 
'T aint afoUerin' your bell-wethers 

Will excuse ye in His sight; 
Ef you take a sword an' dror it, 

An' go stick a feller thru, 
Guv'ment aint to answer for it, 

God '11 send the bill to you. 

Wut 's the use o' meetin'-goin' 

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 5° 

Ef it 's right to go amowin' 

Feller-men like oats an' rye? 
I dunno but wut it 's pooty 

Trainin' round in bobtail coats, — 
But it 's curus Christian dooty 

This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. 

They may talk o' Freedom's airy 

Tell they 're pupple in the face, — 
It 's a grand gret cemetary 

Fer the barthrights of our race; ^o 

They jest want this Calif orny 

So 's to lug new slave-States in. 
To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, 

An' to plunder ye like sin. 

Aint it cute to see a Yankee 

Take sech everlastin' pains. 
All to get the Devil's thankee 

Helpin' on 'em weld their chains? 
Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers, 

Clear ez one an' one make two, 7° 

Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers 

Want to make wite slaves o' you. 

Tell ye jest the eend I've come to 

Arter cipherin' plaguy smart. 
An' it makes a handy sum, tu. 

Any gump could larn by heart; 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



285 



Laborin' man an' laborin' woman 
Hev one glory an' one shame. 

Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhuman 
Injers all on 'em the same. ^'^ 

'T aint by turnin' out to hack folks 

You 're agoin' to git your right, 
Nor by lookin' down on black folks 

Coz you 're put upon by wite; 
Slavery aint o' nary_ color, 

'T aint the hide thet makes it wus, 
All it keers fer in a feller 

'S jest to make him fill its pus. 

Want to tackle me in, du ye? 

I expect you '11 hev to wait; 9o 

Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye 

You '11 begin to kal'late; 
S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin' 

All the carkiss from your bones, 
Coz you helped to give a lickin' 

To them poor half-Spanish drones? 

Jest go home an' ask our Nancy 

Wether I 'd be sech a goose 
Ez to jine ye, — guess you 'd fancy 

The etarnal bung wuz loose! _ loo 
She wants me fer home consumption, 

Let alone the hay 's to mow, — 
Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption, 

You 've a darned long row to hoe. 

Take them editors thet 's crowin' 

Like a cockerel three months old, — 
Don't ketch any on 'em goin', 

Though they 'd be so blasted bold; 
Aint they a prime lot o' fellers? 

'Fore they think on 't guess they '11 
sprout ^'° 

(Like a peach thet 's got the yellers), 

With the meanness bustin' out. 

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' 

Bigger pens to cram with slaves, 
Help the men thet 's oilers dealin' 

Insults on your fathers' graves ; 
Help the strong to grind the feeble. 

Help the many agin the few. 
Help the men thet call your people 

Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew ! i^o 

Massachusetts, God forgive her, 

She 's akneelin' with the rest, 
She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever 

In her grand old eagle-nest; 
She thet ough' to stand so fearless 

Wile the wracks are round her hurled, 
Holdin' up a beacon peerless 

To the oppressed of all the world ! 



Ha'n't they sold your colored seanien? 

Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?i 
Wut '11 make ye act like freemen? 13° 

Wut '11 git your dander riz? 
Come, I '11 tell ye wut I 'm thinkin' 

Is our dooty in this fix, 
They 'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin' 

In the days o' seventy-six. 

Clang the bells in every steeple. 

Call all true men to disown 
The tradoocers of our people, 

The enslavers o' their own; ^40 

Let our dear old Bay State proudly 

Put the trumpet to her mouth. 
Let her ring this messidge loudly 

In the ears of all the South : — 

"I '11 return ye good fer evil 

Much ez we frail mortils can, 
But I wun't go help the Devil 

Makin' man the cus o' man; 
Call me coward, call me traiter, 

Jest ez suits your mean idees, — ^so 

Here I stand a tyrant-hater, 

An' the friend o' God an' Peace !" 

Ef I 'd my way I hed ruther 
We should go to work an' part, 

They take one way, we take t' other. 
Guess it would n't break my heart; 

Man hed ough' to put asunder 
Them thet God has noways jined; 

An' I should n't gretly wonder 

Ef there 's thousands o' my mind. '^o 

June 17, .1846. 

No. Ill 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks ^ 

Guvener B. is a sensible man; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his 
folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can. 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; 
But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B. 

^ Mr. Hoar was driven out of South Carolina 
and Mr. Hubbard out of Louisiana where they 
had gone to represent Massachusetts in behalf of 
free colored seamen in 1844. 

^ Governor B. was Geo. N. Briggs, Governor 
of Massachusetts from 1844 to 1851. General C. 
was Caleb Gushing, who had been a somewhat 
elusive Congressman, and in this state campaign 
of 1847 was defeated by Briggs. John P. was 
J. P. Robinson, formerly an influential Whig, 
who in this campaign went over to the side of 
Gushing, much to the dissatisfaction of Mr. 
Lowell, as this poem shows. 



286 



AMERICAN POETRY 



My ! aint it terrible ? Wut shall we du ? 

We can't never choose him o' course, — 

thet 's flat; 

Guess we shall hev to come round (don't 

you?) 10 

An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all 

* that; 

Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B. 

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 
He 's ben on all sides thet gives places or 
pelf ; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his 

plan, — 
He 's ben true to one party, — an' thet is 
himself; — 

So John P. 

Robinson he -° 

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; 
He don't vally princerple more 'n an old 
cud; 
^^'ut did God make us raytional creeturs 
fer, 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' 
blood? 

So John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our 
village. 
With good old idees o' wut's right an' 
wut aint, 3° 

We kind o' thought Christ went agin w^ar 
an' pillage. 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark 
of a saint; 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded 
idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be 
took, 
An' President Polk, you know, he is our 
country. 
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a 
book 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per 
confry; 

An' John P. 40 

Robinson he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to 
a T. 



Parson Wilbur he calls all these argi- 
munts lies ; 
Sez they 're nothin' on airth but jest 
fee, faw, fum; 
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half 
rum; 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of 
course, so must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his 
hfe 50 

Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their 
swaller-tail coats. 
An' marched round in front of a drum 
an' a fife, 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 
'em votes; 

But John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez thc}^ didn't know everythin' down 
in Judee. 

Wal, it 's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell 
us 
The rights an' the wrongs o' these mat- 
ters, I vow, — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise 
fellers. 
To start the world's team wen it gits in 
in a slough; 6° 

Fer John P. 
Robinson he 
Sez the world '11 go right, ef he hol- 
lers out Gee ! 

Boston Courier, Nov. 2, 1847. 

[The attentive reader will doubtless 
have perceived in the foregoing poem an 
allusion to that pernicious sentiment, "Our 
country, right or wrong." It is an abuse 
of language to call a certain portion of 
land, much more, certain personages, 
elevated for the time being to high sta- 
tion, our country. I would not sever nor 
loosen a single one of those ties by which 
we are united to the spot of our birth, 
nor minish by a tittle the respect due to 
the Magistrate. I love our own Bay State 
too well to do the one, and as for the 
other, I have mj'self for nigh forty years 
exercised, however unworthily, the func- 
tion of Justice of the Peace, having been 
called thereto by the unsolicited kindness 
of that most excellent man and upright 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



287 



patriot, Caleb Strong. Patrice fumus igne 
alieno luculentior is best qualified with 
this, — Ubi libertas, ibi patria. We are in- 
habitants of two worlds, and owe a double, 
not a divided, allegiance. In virtue of 
our clay, this little ball of earth exacts 
a certain loyalty of us, while, in our ca- 
pacity as spirits, we are admitted citizens 
of an invisible and holier fatherland. 
There is a patriotism of the soul whose 
claim absolves us from our other and 
terrene fealty. Our true country is that 
ideal realm which we represent to our- 
selves under the names of religion, duty, 
and the Hke. Our terrestrial organiza- 
tions are but far-off approaches to so fair 
a model, and all they are verily traitors 
who resist not any attempt to divert 
them from this their original intend- 
ment. When, therefore, one would have 
us to fling up our caps and shout with 
the multitude, "Our country, however 
hounded!" he demands of us that we 
sacrifice the larger to the less, the higher 
to the lower, and that we yield to the 
imaginary claims of a few acres of soil 
our duty and privilege as liegemen of 
Truth. Our true country is bounded on 
the north and the south, on the east and 
the west, by Justice, and when she over- 
steps that invisible boundary-line by so 
much as a hair's-breadth, she ceases to 
be our mother, and chooses rr.ther to be 
looked upon quasi noverca. That is a 
hard choice when our earthly love of 
country calls upon us to tread one path 
and our duty points us to another. We 
must make as noble and becoming an 
election as did Penelope between Icarius 
and Ulysses. Veiling our faces, we must 
take silently the hand of Duty to follow 
her. . : . H. W.] 



No. VI 
The Pious Editor's Creed 

I du believe in Freedom's cause, 

Ez fur away ez Payris is ; ^ 
I love to see her stick her claws 

In them infarnal Phayrisees; 
It 's wal enough agin a king 

To dror resolves an' triggers, — 
But libbaty 's a kind o' thing 

Thet don't agree with niggers. 

^ The monarchy of Louis Philippe had just 
been overthrown by the Revolution of 1848 in 
France. 



I du believe the people want 
A tax on teas an' coffees, 

Thet nothin' aint extravygunt, — 

Purvidin' I 'm in office; 

Fer I hev loved my country sence 
My eye-teeth filled their sockets. 

An' Uncle Sam I reverence, 
Partic'larly his pockets. 



I du believe in any plan 

O' levyin' the texes, 
Ez long ez, like a lumberman, 

I git jest wut I axes; 
I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, 

Because it kind o' rouses 
The folks to vote, — an' keeps us in 

Our quiet custom-houses. 



I du believe it 's wise an* good 

To sen' out furrin missions, 
Thet is, on sartin understood 

An' orthydox conditions ; — 
I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., 

Nine thousan' more fer outfit, 
An' me to recommend a man 

The place 'ould jest about fit. 



I du believe in special ways 

O' prayin' an' convartin'; 
The bread comes back in many days, 

An' buttered, tu, fer sartin; 
I mean in preyin' till one busts 

On wut the party chooses, 
An' in convartin' public trusts 

To very privit uses. 



I du believe hard coin the stuff 

Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; 
The people 's oilers soft enough 

To make hard money out on; 
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his. 

An' gives a good-sized junk to all,- 
I don't care how hard money is, 

Ez long ez mine 's paid punctooal. 



I du believe with all my soul 

In the gret Press's freedom, 
To pint the people to the goal 

An' in the traces lead 'em; 
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes 

At my fat contracts squintin'. 
An' withered be the nose thet pokes 

Inter the gov'ment printin' ! 



30 



40 



so 



288 



AMERICAN POETRY 



I du believe thet I should give 

Wut 's his'n unto Caesar, 
Fer it 's by him I move an' live, 

Frum him my bread an' cheese air; 60 
I du believe thet all o' me 

Doth bear his superscription, — 
Will, conscience, honor, honesty, 

An' things o' thet description. 

I du beheve in prayer an' praise 

To him thet hez the grantin' 
O' jobs, — in every thin' thet pays, 

But most of all in Cantin' ; 
This doth my cup with marcies fill. 

This lays all thought o' sin to rest, 7o 
I don't believe in princerple. 

But oh, I du in interest. 

I du believe in bein' this 

Or thet, ez it may happen 
One v^^ay or t' other hendiest is 

To ketch the people nappin' ; 
It aint by princerples nor men 

My preudunt course is steadied, — 
I scent vi'ich pays the best, an' then 

Go into it baldheaded. 80 



I du believe thet holdin' slaves 

Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, 
Let 'lone the rowdedow^ it saves 

To hev a wal-broke precedunt; 
Fer any office, small or gret, 

I couldn't ax with no face, 
'uthout I 'd ben, thru dry an' wet, 

Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. 

I du believe wutever trash 

'11 keep the people in blindness, 9° 

Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash 

Right inter brotherly kindness, 
Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' 
ball 

Air good-will's strongest magnets, 
Thet peace, to make it stick at all, 

Must be druv in with bagnets. 

In short, I firmly du believe 

In Humbug generally, 
Fer it 's a thing thet I perceive 

To hev a solid vally; 100 

This heth my faithful shepherd ben, 

In pasturs sweet heth led me, 
An' this '11 keep the people green 

To feed ez they hev fed me. 

The Anti-Slavery Standard, May 4, 1848. 



From THE VISION OF SIR 
LAUNFAL 1 

From Part First 



As Sir Launfal made morn through the 
darksome gate. 
He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by 
the same. 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as 
he sate; 
And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with a 
thrill, isi 

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink 
and crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 

Like a frozen waterfall; 
For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. 
And seemed the one blot on the summer 

morn, — 
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 

VI 

The leper raised not the gold' from the 

dust: 
"Better to me the poor man's crust, 160 
Better the blessing of the poor, 
Though I turn me empty from his door; 
That is no true alms which the hand can 

hold; 
He gives only the worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty; 
But he who gives but a slender mite. 
And gives to that which is out of sight. 
That thread of the all-sustaining 

Beauty 

* According to the mythology of the Romancers, 
the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out 
of which Jesus partook of the Last Supper 
with his disciples. It was brought into England 
by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an 
object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many 
years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. 
It was incumbent upon those who had charge of 
it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed; but 
one of the keepers having broken this condition, 
the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it 
was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Ar- 
thur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad 
was at last successful in finding it, as may be 
read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of 
King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad 
the subject of one of the most exquisite of his 
poems. 

The plot (if I may give that name to anything 
so slight) of the following poem is my own, and, 
to serve its_ purposes, I have enlarged the circle 
of competition in search of the miraculous cup 
in such a manner as to include, not only other 
persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but 
also a period of time subsequent to the supposed 
date of King Arthur's reign. (Author's Note.) 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



289 



Which runs through all and doth all 

unite, — 
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his 

alms, 170 

The heart outstretches its eager palms. 
For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness 

before." 

Part Second 



"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ;" 
The happy camels may reach the spring, 
But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome 

thing, 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. 
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
And white as the ice-aisles of Northern 

seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 



There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 

The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 241 

The river was dumb and could not speak. 

For the weaver Winter its shroud had 

spun; 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
From his shining feathers shed off the 

cold sun; 
Again it was morning, but shrunk and 

cold, 
As if her veins were sapless and old, 
And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and sea. 



And Sir Launfal said, "I behold in thee 280 
An image of Him who died on the tree; 
Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns. 
Thou also hast had the world's buffets 

and scorns, 
And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and 

side: 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; 
Behold, through him, I give to thee !" 



Sir Launfal turned from his own hard 
gate, ... ^^^ 

For another heir in his earldom sate ; 
An old, bent man, worn out and frail. 
He came back from seeking the Holy 

Grail ; 
Little he recked of his earldom's loss. 
No more on his surcoat was blazoned the 

cross. 
But deep in his soul the sign he wore. 
The badge of the suffering and the poor. 



Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air. 
For it was just at the Christmas time; 260 
So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. 
And sought for a shelter from cold and 

snow 
In the light and warmth of long-ago; 
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
O'er the edge of the desert, black and 

small. 
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 
He can count the camels in the sun, 
As over the red-hot sands they pass 
To where, in its slender necklace of grass. 
The little spring laughed and leapt in the 

shade, 270 

And with its own self like an infant 

played, 
And waved its signal of palms. 



VI 

Then the soul of the leper stood up in 
his eyes 
And looked at Sir Launfal, and straight- 
way he 
Remembered in what a haughtier guise 290 

He had flung an alms to leprosie. 
When he girt his young life up in gilded 

mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
He parted in twain his single crust, 
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink. 
And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown 
bread, 
'T was water out of a wooden bowl- 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper 
fed, 300 

And 't was red wine he drank with his 
thirsty soul. 

VII 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast 

face, 
A light shone round about the place; 
The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
But stood before him glorified. 
Shining and tall and fair and straight 
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful' 

Gate, — 
Himself the Gate whereby men can 
Enter the temple of God in Man. 



290 



AMERICAN POETRY 



His words were shed softer than leaves 

from the pine, 310 

And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on 

the brine, 
That mingle their softness and quiet in 

one 
With the shaggy unrest they float down 

upon ; 
And the voice that was softer than silence 

said, 
"Lo, it is I, be not afraid ! 
In many climes, without avail. 
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy 

Grail ; 
Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but 

now; 
This crust is my body broken for thee, 320 
This water his blood that died on the 

tree ; 
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
In whatso we share with another's need; 
Not what we give, but what we share. 
For the gift without the giver is bare; 
Who gives himself with his alms feeds 

three. 
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 

IX 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : 
"The Grail in my castle here is found ! 
Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 33° 
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall ; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 

X 

The castle gate stands open now, 
And the wanderer is welcome to the 

hall 
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 

No longer scowl the turrets tall. 
The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
When the first poor outcast went in at 

the door. 
She entered with him in disguise, 34° 

And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
There is no spot she loves so well on 

ground. 
She lingers and smiles there the whole 

year round; 
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
Has hall and bower at his command ; 
And there 's no poor man in the North 

Countree 
But is lord of the earldom as much as 

he. 

1848. Separately published, 1848. 



From A FABLE FOR CRITICS 1 

Reader! walk up at once (it will soon be too 
late), and buy at a perfectly ruinous rate 

A FABLE FOR CRITICS: 



OR, BETTER, 

(l LIKE, AS A THING THAT THE READER'S FIRST 
FANCY MAY STRIKE, AN OLD-FASHIONED TITLE-PAGE, 
SUCH AS PRESENTS A TABULAR VIEW OF THE VOL- 
UME'S CONTENTS), 

A GLANCE AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY 
PROGENIES 

(MRS. MALAPROP'S WORD) 

FROM THE TUB OF DIOGENES; 

A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY, 

THAT IS, 

A SERIES OF JOKES 

BY A WONDERFUL QUIZ, 

WHO ACCOMPANIES HIMSELF WITH A RUB-A-DUB- 
DUB, FULL OF SPIRIT AND GRACE, ON THE TOP OF 
THE TUB. 

Set forth in October, the 31st day, 
In the year '48, G. P. Putnam, Broadway. 

"There comes Emerson first, whose rich 

words, every one, 
Are like gold nails in temples to hang 

trophies on. 
Whose prose is grand verse, while his 

verse, the Lord knows, 
Is some of it pr — No, 't is not even 

prose; 
I 'm speaking of metres; some poems 

have welled 
From those rare depths of soul that have 

ne'er been excelled; 
They 're not epics, but that does n't matter 

a pin, 
In creating, the only hard thing 's to begin ; 
A grass-blade 's no easier to make than 

an oak; 
If you 've once found the way, you 've 

achieved the grand stroke ; ^° 

^ This jen d'esprit was extemporized, I may 
fairly say, so rapidly was it written, purely for 
rny own amusement and with no thought of pub- 
lication. I sent daily instalments of it to a 
friend in New York, the late Charles F. Briggs. 
He urged me to let it be printed, and I at last 
consented to its anonymous publication. The 
secret was kept till after several persons had 
laid claim to its authorship. (Author's Note.) 

See Scudder's Life of Lowell, vol. i, pp. 238- 
255. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



291 



In the worst of his poems are mines of 

rich matter, 
But thrown in a heap with a crash and a 

clatter ; 
Now it is not one thing nor another alone 
Makes a poem, but rather the general 

tone, 
The something pervading, uniting the 

whole, 
The before unconceived, unconceivable 

soul. 
So that just in removing this trifle or that, 

you 
Take away, as it were, a chief limb of the 

statue ; 
Roots, wood, bark, and leaves singly per- 
fect may be, 
But, clapt hodge-podge together, they 

don't make a tree. 20 

"But, to come back to Emerson (whom, 
by the way, 

I believe we left waiting), — his is, we 
may say, 

A Greek head on right Yankee shoulders, 
whose range 

Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other 
the Exchange ; 

He seems, to my thinking (although I 'm 
afraid 

The comparison must, long ere this, have 
been made), 

A Plotinus-Montaigne, where the Egyp- 
tian's gold mist 

And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek-by- 
jowl coexist; 

All admire, and yet scarcely six converts 
he's got 

To I do n't (nor they either) exactly know 
what ; 30 

For though he builds glorious temples, 
't is odd 

He leaves never a doorway to get in a 
god. 

'T is refreshing to old-fashioned people 
like me 

To meet such a primitive Pagan as he. 

In whose mind all creation is duly re- 
spected 

As parts of himself — just a little pro- 
jected; 

And who 's willing to worship the stars 
and the sun, 

A convert to — nothing but Emerson. 

So perfect a balance there is in his head. 

That he talks of things sometimes as if 
they were dead ; 40 

Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that 
sort. 



He looks at as merely ideas ; in short, 
As if they were fossils stuck round in a 

cabinet, 
Of such vast extent that our earth's a 

mere dab in it; 
Composed just as he is inclined to con- 
jecture her. 
Namely, one" part pure earth, ninety-nine 

parts pure lecturer; 
You are filled with delight at his clear 

demonstration. 
Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the 

occasion, 
With the quiet precision of science he '11 

sort 'em, 
But you can't help suspecting the whole a 

post mortem. ' so 

"There are persons, mole-blind to the 

soul's make and style. 
Who insist on a likeness 'twixt him and 

Carlyle ; 
To compare him with Plato would be 

vastly fairer, 
Carlyle 's the more burly, but E. is the 

rarer ; 
He sees fewer objects, but clearlier, true- 

lier. 
If C. 's as original, E. 's more peculiar; 
That he 's more of a man you might say 

of the one, 
Of the other he 's more of an Emerson; 
C. 's the Titan, as shaggy of mind as of 

limb, — 
E. the clear-eyed Olympian, rapid and 

slim ; 60 

The one 's two thirds Norseman, the other 

half Greek, 
Where the one 's most abounding the 

other 's to seek; 
C. 's generals require to be seen in the 

mass, — 
E. 's specialties gain if enlarged by the 

glass ; 
C. gives nature and God his own fits of 

the blues. 
And rims common-sense things with mys- 
tical hues, — 
E. sits in a mystery calm and intense. 
And looks coolly around him with sharp 

common-sense; 
C. shows you how every-day matters unite 
With the dim transdiurnal recesses of 

night, — 70 

While E., in a plain, preternatural way, 
Makes mysteries matters of mere every 

day; 
C. draws all his characters quite a la Fu- 

seli, — 



292 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Not sketching their bundles of muscles 

and thews illy, 
He paints with a brush so untamed and 

profuse 
They seem nothing but bundles of muscles 

and thews ; 
E. is rather like Flaxman, lines strait and 

severe, 
And a colorless outline, but full, round, 

and clear; — 
To the men he thinks worthy he frankly 

accords 
The design of a white marble statue in 

words. 80 

C. labors to get at the centre, and then 
Take a reckoning from there of his actions 

and men ; 
E. calmly assumes the said centre as 

granted, 
And, given himself, has whatever is 

wanted. 

"He has imitators in scores, who omit 
No part of the man but his wisdom and 

wit, — 
Who go carefully o'er the sky-blue of his 

brain, 
And when he has skimmed it once, skim 

it again; 
If at all they resemble him, you may be 

sure it is 
Because their shoals mirror his mists and 

obscurities, 9" 

As a mud-puddle seems deep as heaven 

for a minute, 
While a cloud that floats o'er is reflected 

within it. 



"There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and 
as dignified. 

As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is 
ignified. 

Save when by reflection 't is kindled o' 
nights 

With a semblance of flame by the chill 
Northern Lights. 

He may rank (Griswold says so) first 
bard of your nation 

(There 's no doubt that he stands in su- 
preme iceolation). 

Your topmost Parnassus he may set his 
heel on. 

But no warm applauses come, peal follow- 
ing peal on, — 100 

He 's too smooth and too polished to hang 
any zeal on : 

Unqualified merits, I '11 grant, if you 
choose, he has 'em, 



But he lacks the one merit of kindling 

enthusiasm; 
If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, 
Like being stirred up with the very North 

Pole. 

"He is very nice reading in summer, 

but inter 
Nos, we do n't want extra freezing in 

winter; 
Take him up in the depth of July, my 

advice is. 
When you feel an Egyptian devotion to 

ices. 
But, deduct all you can, there 's enough 

that 's right good in him, "o 

He has a true soul for field, river, and 

wood in him; 
And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, 

or where'er it is. 
Glows, softens, and thrills with the ten- 

derest charities — 
To you mortals that delve in this trade- 
ridden planet? 
No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their 

limestone and granite. 
If you 're one who in loco (add foco here) 

desipis. 
You will get of his outermost heart (as 

I guess) a piece; 
But you 'd get deeper down if you came 

as a precipice. 
And would break the last seal of its in- 

wardest fountain. 
If you only could palm yourself oflf for a 

mountain. 120 

Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discern- 
ing. 
Some scholar who 's hourly expecting his 

learning, 
Calls B. the American Wordsworth; but 

Wordsworth 
May be rated at more than your whole 

tuneful herd 's worth. 
No, don't be absurd, he 's an excellent 

Bryant; 
But, my friends, you '11 endanger the life 

of your client. 
By attempting to stretch him up into a 

giant : 
If you choose to compare him, I think 

there are two per- 
-sons fit for a parallel — Thomson and 

Cowper; 1 

^ To demonstrate quickly and easily how per- 
versely absurd 't is to sound this name Cowper, 
As people in general call him named super, 
I remark that he rhymes it himself with horse- 
trooper. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



293 



I don't mean exactly, — there's something 
of each, 130 

There 's T.'s love of nature, C.'s penchant 
to preach ; 

Just mix up their minds so that C.'s spice 
of craziness 

Shall balance and neutralize T/s turn for 
laziness. 

And it gives you a brain cool, quite fric- 
tionless, quiet. 

Whose internal police nips the buds of all 
riot, — 

A brain like a permanent strait-jacket put 
on 

The heart that strives vainly to burst off 
a button, — 

A brain which, without being slow or me- 
chanic. 

Does more than a larger less drilled, more 
volcanic ; 

He 's a Cowper condensed, with no crazi- 
ness bitten, 140 

And the advantage that Wordsworth be- 
fore him had written. 

"But, my dear little bardlings, don't 

prick up your ears 
Nor suppose I would rank you and Bryant 

as peers ; 
If I call him an iceberg, I don't mean to 

say 
There is nothing in that which is grand 

in its way ; 
He is almost the one of your poets that 

knows 
How much grace, strength, and dignity lie 

in Repose; 
If he sometimes fall short, he is too wise 

to mar 
His thought's modest fulness by going too 

far; 
'T would be well if your authors should 

all make a trial _ 'So 

Of what virtue there is in severe self- 
denial, ' 
And measure their writings by Hesiod's 

staff. 
Which teaches that all has less value than 

half. 

"There is Whittier, whose swelling and 

vehement heart 
Strains the strait-breasted drab of the 

Quaker apart. 
And reveals the live Man, still supreme 

and erect,' 
Underneath the bemummying wrappers of 

sect ; 



There was ne'er a man born who had 

more of the swing 
Of the true lyric bard and all that kind 

of thing; 
And his failures arise (though he seem 

not to know it) 160 

From the very same cause that has made 

him a poet,— 
A fervor of mind which knows no separa- 
tion 
'Twixt simple excitement and pure in- 
spiration. 
As my Pythoness erst sometimes erred 

from not knowing 
If 't were I or mere wind through her 

tripod was blowing; 
Let his mind once get head in its favorite 

direction 
And the torrent of verse bursts the dams 

of reflection, 
While, borne with the rush of the metre 

along, 
The poet may chance to go right or go 

wrong. 
Content with the whirl and delirium of 

song ; • 170 

Then his grammar's not always correct, 

nor his rhymes. 
And he 's prone to repeat his own lyrics 

sometimes, 
Not his best, though, for those are struck 

off at white-heats 
When the heart in his breast like a trip- 
hammer beats, 
And can ne'er be repeat'ed again any 

more 
Than they could have been carefully plot- 
ted before: 
Like old what's-his-name there at the 

battle of Hastings 
(Who, however, gave more than mere 

rhythmical bastings). 
Our Quaker leads off metaphorical fights 
For reform and whatever they call human 

rights, 180 

Both singing and striking in front of the 

war, 
And hitting his foes with the mallet of 

Thor; 
Anne hcsc, one exclaims, on beholding his 

knocks, 
Vestis filii tui, O leather-clad Fox? 
Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid 

din. 
Preaching brotherly love and then driving 

it in 
To the brain of the tough old Goliath of 

sin, 



294 



AMERICAN POETRY 



With the smoothest of pebbles from Cas- 

taly's spring 
Impressed on his hard moral sense with 

a sling? 

"There comes Poe, with his raven, hke 

Barnaby Rudge, '9o 

Three fifths of him genius and two fifths 

sheer fudge, 
Who talks like a book of iambs and pen- 
tameters, 
In a way to make people of common sense 

damn metres, 
Who has written some things quite the 

best of their kind. 
But the heart somehow seems all squeezed 

out by the mind, 
Who— But hey-day! What 's this? 

Messieurs Mathews and Poe, 
You mustn't fling mud-balls at Longfellow 

so, 
Does it make a man worse that his char- 
acter 's such 
As to make his friends love him (as you 

think) too much? 
Why, there is not a bard at this moment 

alive 200 

More willing than he that his fellows 

should thrive ; 
While you are abusing him thus, even now 
He would help either one of you out of a 

slough ; 
You may say that he 's smooth and all 

that till you 're hoarse, 
But remember that elegance also is force; 
After polishing granite as much as you 

will, 
The heart keeps its tough old persistency 

still ; 
Deduct all you can, tJiat still keeps you at 

bay; 
Why, he '11 live till men weary of Collins 

and Gray. 
I 'm not over-fond of Greek metres in 

English, -'° 

To me rhyme 's a gain, so it be not too 

jinglish, 
And your modern hexameter verses are 

no more 
Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is 

like Homer; 
As the roar of the sea to the coo of a 

pigeon is. 
So, compared to your moderns, sounds 

old Melesigenes; 
I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, 

o't is 
That I 've heard the old blind man recite 

his own rhapsodies, 



And my ear with that music impregnate 
may be, 

Like the poor exiled shell with the soul 
of the sea. 

Or as one can't bear Strauss when his na- 
ture is cloven -^ 

To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of 
Beethoven; 

But, set that aside, and 't is truth that I 
speak, 

Had Theocritus written in English, not 
Greek, 

I believe that his exquisite sense would 
scarce change a line 

In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral 
Evangeline. 

That 's not ancient nor modern, its place 
is apart 

Where time has no sway, in the realm of 
pure Art, 

'T is a shrine of retreat from Earth's hub- 
bub and strife 

As quiet and chaste as the author's own 
life. 



"There 's Holmes, who is matchless 
among you for wit; -3° 

A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from 
which flit 

The electrical tingles of hit after hit; 

In long poems 't is painful sometimes, and 
invites 

A thought of the way the new Telegraph 
writes. 

Which pricks down its little sharp sen- 
tences spitefully 

As if you got more than you 'd title to 
rightfully. 

And you find yourself hoping its wild 
father Lightning 

Would flame in for a second and give 
you a fright'ning. 

He has perfect sway of what I call a 
sham metre. 

But many admire it, the English pentame- 
ter, 240 

And Campbell, I think, wrote most com- 
monly worse, 

With less nerve, swing, and fire in the 
same kind of verse. 

Nor e'er achieved aught in 't so worthy 
of praise 

As the tribute of Holmes to the grand 
Marseillaise. 

You went crazy last year over Bulwer's 
New Timon ; — 

Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should 
rhyme on, 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



295 



Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon 

tomes, 
He could ne'er reach the best point and 

vigor of Holmes. 
His are just the fine hands, too, to weave 

you a lyric 
Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with 

satiric 25° 

In a measure so kindly you doubt if the 

toes 
That are trodden upon are your own or 

your foes'. 

"There is Lowell, who 's striving Par- 
nassus to climb 

With a whole bale of isms tied together 
with rhyme. 

He might get on alone, spite of brambles 
and boulders. 

But he can't with that bundle he has on 
his shoulders, 

The top of the hill he will ne'er come 
nigh reaching 

Till he learns the distinction 'twixt sing- 
ing and preaching; 

His lyre has some chords that would ring 
pretty well, 

But he'd rather by half make a drum of 
the shell, " 260 

And rattle away till he 's old as Methusa- 
lem, 

At the head of a march to the last new 
Jerusalem." , 

1848. 



I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 20 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud" like snow, 30 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar that renewed our woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 

"The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make it fall !" . 

Then, with eyes that saw not', I kissed 
her; 
And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister. 

Folded close under deepening snow. 4° 
1849. 

Anti-Slavery Standard, Dec. 27, 1849. 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL 1 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, ^ 

The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

* See The Changeling and note. 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN 

My coachman, in the moonlight there. 
Looks through the side-light of the 
door ; 

I hear him with his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane. 
He envies me my brilliant lot. 

Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 
And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side, 1° 

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 
'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled 
load; 

And wishes me some dreadful harm, 
Hearing the merry corks explode. 



296 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And envy him, outside the door. 
In golden quiets of the moon. 2° 

The winter wind is not so cold 
As the bright smile he sees me win. 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 

With which his freezing feet he warms, 

And drag my lady's-chains and dance 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din, 
And I his quiet ! — past a doubt 3° 

'T would still be one man bored within. 
And just another bored without. 

Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee. 
Some idler on my headstone grim 

Traces the moss-blurred name, will he 
Think me the happier, or I him? 

Putnam's Magazine, April, 1854. 



AUF WIEDERSEHENi 

SUMMER 

The little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast. 
And said, — "Axif wiedersehen!" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright, 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 
She said, — "Auf wiedersehen!" ^° 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 

I linger in delicious pain; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. 

Thinks she, — "Auf wiedersehen?" . . . 

'T is thirteen years ; once more I press 
The turf that silences the lane ; 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 

I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 

I hear "Auf wiedersehen!" 20 

^ Lowell became engaged to Miss Maria White 
in 1840. They were married in 1844, and Mrs. 
Lowell died in October, 1853. 



fain. Tt 



Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain, 
But these— they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart,' 

She said, — "Auf wiedersehen!" 

Putnam's Monthly, Dec, 1854. 



PALINODE 



Still thirteen years : 't is autumn now 
On field and hill, in heart and brain; 

The naked trees at evening sough; 

The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — "Auf wiedersehen!" 

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, 
That now is void, and dank with rain, 

And one, — oh, hope more frail than foam ! 

The bird to his deserted home 

Sings not, — "Auf wiedersehen!" i° 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at pain ; 
There came a parting, when the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly, — "Auf wiedersehen!" 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 

Though thou in outer 'dark remain; 
One sweet sad voice ennobles death, 
And still, for eighteen cenjturies saith 
Softly, — "Auf wiedersehen!" 20 

If earth another grave must bear, 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain. 
And something whispers my despair. 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, "Auf Wiedersehen!" 

Putnam's Monthly, Dec, 1854. 



INVITA MINERVA 

The Bardling came where by a river grew 
The pennoned reeds, that, as the west- 
wind blew. 
Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if they 

knew 
What music slept enchanted in each stem, 
Till Pan should choose some happy one 

of them, 
And with wise lips enlife it through and 
through. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



297 



The Bardling thought, "A pipe is all I 

need; 
Once I have sought me out a clear, smooth 

reed, 
And shaped it to my fancy, I proceed 
To breathe such strains as, yonder mid 

the rocks, ^° 

The strange youth blows, that tends Ad- 

metus's flocks, 
And all the maidens shall to me pay 

heed." 

The summer day he spent in questful 

round. 
And many a reed he marred, but never 

found 
A conjuring-spell to free the imprisoned 

sound ; 
At last his vainly wearied limbs he laid 
Beneath a sacred laurel's flickering shade, 
And sleep about his brain her cobweb 

wound. 

Then strode the mighty Mother through 

his dreams. 
Saying: "The reeds along a thousand 

streams 20 

Are mine, and who is he that plots and 

schemes 
To snare the melodies wherewith my 

breath 
Sounds through the double pipes of Life 

and Death, 
Atoning what to men mad discord seems ? 

"He seeks not me, but I seek oft in vain 
For him who shall my voiceful reeds 

constrain, 
And make them utter their melodious 

pain; 
He flies the immortal gift, for well he 

knows 
His life of life must with its overflows 
Flood the unthankful pipe, nor come 

again. 3° 

"Thou fool, who dost my harmless sub- 
jects wrong, 

'T is not the singer's wish that makes the 
song: 

The rhythmic beauty wanders dumb, how 
long. 

Nor stoops to any daintiest instrument. 

Till, found its mated lips, their sweet 
consent 

Makes mortal breath than Time and Fate 
more strong." 

The Crayon, May 30, 1855. 



THE ORIGIN OF DIDACTIC 
POETRY 

When wise Minerva still was young 

And just the least romantic. 
Soon after from Jove's head she flung 

That preternatural antic, 
'T is said, to keep from idleness 

Or flirting, those twin curses, 
She spent her leisure, more or less. 

In writing po , no, verses. 

How nice they were ! to rhyme with far 

A kind star did not tarry; 10 

The metre, too, was regular 

As schoolboy's dot and carry; 
And full they were of pious plums. 

So extra-super-moral, — 
For sucking Virtue's tender gums 

Most tooth-enticing coral. 

A clean, fair copy she prepares, 

Makes sure of moods and tenses. 
With her own hand, — for prudence spares 

A man- (or woman-)-uensis; 20 

Complete, and tied with ribbons proud. 

She hinted soon how cosy a 
Treat it would be to read them loud 

After next day's Ambrosia. 

The Gods thought not it would amuse 

So much as Homer's Odyssees, 
But could not very well refuse 

The properest of Goddesses; 
So all sat round in attitudes 

Of various dejection, 3° 

As with a hem! the queen of prudes 

Began her grave prelection. 

At thefirst pause Zeus said, "Well sung ! — 

I mean — ask Phoebus, — he knows." 
Says Phoebus, "Zounds ! a wolfs among 

Admetus's merinos ! 
Fine ! very fine ! but I must go ; 

They stand in need of me there ; 
Excuse me !" snatched his stick, and so 

Plunged down the gladdened ether. 40 

With the next gap, Mars said, "For me 

Don't wait, — naught could be finer. 
But I 'm engaged at half past three, — 

A fight in Asia Minor !" 
Then Venus lisped, "I 'm sorely tried, 

These duty-calls are vip'rous; 
But I must go ; I have a bride 

To see about in Cyprus." 



298 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Then Bacchus, — "I must say good-by, 

Although my peace it jeopards; 5° 

I meet a man at four, to try 

A well-broke pair of leopards." 
His words woke Hermes. "Ah!" he said, 

"I so love moral theses !" 
Then winked at Hebe, who turned red, 

And smoothed her apron's creases. 

Just then Zeus snored, — the Eagle drew 

His head the wing from under; 
Zeus snored, — o'er startled Greece there 
flew 

The many-volumed thunder. 60 

Some augurs counted nine, some, ten; 

Some said 't was war, some, famine, 
And all, that other-minded men 

Would get a precious . 

Proud Pallas sighed, "It will not do; 

Against the Muse I 've sinned, oh !" 
And her torn rhymes sent flying through 

Olympus's back window. 
Then, packing up a peplus clean. 

She took the shortest path thence, 7° 
And opened, with a mind serene, 

A Sunday-school in Athens. 

The verses? Some in ocean swilled, 

Killed every fish that bit to 'em; 
Some Galen caught, and, when distilled, 

Found morphine the residuum; 
But some that rotted on the earth 

Sprang up again in copies. 
And gave two strong narcotics birth, 

Didactic verse and poppies. 80 

Years after, when a poet asked 

The Goddess's opinion. 
As one whose soul its wings had tasked 

In Art's clear-aired dominion, 
"Discriminate," she said, "betimes; 

The Muse is unforgiving; 
Put all your beauty in your rhymes, 

Your morals in your living." 

The Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1857. 



THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD 

OCTOBER^ 1861 

Along a river-side, I know not where, 
I walked one night in mystery of dream; 
A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my 

hair. 
To think what chanced me by the pallid 

gleam 
Of a moon-wraith that waned through 

haunted air. 



Pale fireflies pulsed, within the meadow- 
mist 

Their halos, wavering thistle downs of 
light; 

The loon, that seemed to mock some gob- 
lin tryst. 

Laughed ; and the echoes, huddling in af- 
fright. 

Like Odin's hounds, iied baying down the 
night. 10 

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear 
A movement in the stream that checked 

my breath : 
Was it the slow plash of a wading deer? 
But something said, "This water is of 

Death ! 
The Sisters wash a shroud, — ill thing to 

hear!" 

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three 
Known to the Greek's and to the North- 
man's creed, 
That sit in shadow of the mystic Tree, 
Still crooning, as they weave their endless 

brede, 
One song : "Time was. Time is, and Time 
shall be." 20 

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had 

deemed. 
But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, 
To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; 
Something too high for joy, too deep for 

sorrow. 
Thrilled in their tones, and from their 

faces gleamed. 

"Still men and nations reap as they have 

strawn," 
So sang they, working at their task the 

while ; 
"The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere 

dawn; 
For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's 

isle? 
O'er what quenched grandeur must our 

shroud be drawn? 3° 

"Or is it for a younger, fairer corse. 
That gathered States like children round 

his knees. 
That tamed the wave to be his posting 

horse. 
Feller of forests, linker of the seas. 
Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son 

of Thor's? 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



299 



"What make we, murmur'st thou? and 

what are we? 
When empires must be wound, we bring 

the shroud. 
The time-old web of the implacable Three: 
Is it tod coarse for him, the young and 

proud? 
Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it, — 

why not he?" 4° 

"Is there no hope ?" I moaned, "so strong, 

so fair ! 
Our Fowler whose proud bird would 

brook erewhile 
No rival's swoop in all our western air ! 
Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file 
For him, life's morn yet golden in his 

hair? 



"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpitying 
dames ! 

I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who scanned 

The stars. Earth's elders, still must no- 
blest aims 

Be traced upon oblivious ocean-sands? 

Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts of 
names ? 5° 



"When grass-blades stiffen with red bat- 
tle-dew. 

Ye deem we choose the victor and the 
slain : 

Say, choose we them that shall be leal and 
true 

To the heart's longing, the high faith of 
brain ? 

Yet there the victory lies, if ye but knew. 

"Three roots bear up Dominion : Knowl- 
edge, Will, — 

These twain are strong, but stronger yet 
the third,— 

Obedience, — 't is the great tap-root that 
still. 

Knit round the rock of Duty, is not stirred. 

Though Heaven - loosed tempests spend 
their utmost skill. 6o 



"Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 'T is 

not we 
Denounce it, but the Law before all time : 
The brave makes danger opportunity; 
The waverer, paltering with the chance 

sublime, 
Dwarfs it to peril: which shall Hesper be? 



"Hath he let vultures climb his eagle's 

seat 
To make Jove's bolts purveyors of their 

maw? 
Hath he the Many's plaudits found more 

sweet 
Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind for 

Law? 
Then let him hearken for the doomster's 

feet! 70 

"Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in flint- 
iest rock. 

States climb to power by; slippery those 
with gold 

Down which they stumble to eternal 
mock : 

No chafferer's hand shall long the sceptre 
hold. 

Who, given a Fate to shape, would sell 
the block. 

"We sing old Sagas, songs of weal and 

woe, 
Mystic because too cheaply understood; 
Dark sayings are not ours ; men hear and 

know, 
See Evil weak, see strength alone in Good, 
Yet hope to stem God's fire with walls of 

tow. 8o 

"Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, 
That offers choice of glory or of gloom; 
The solver makes Time Shall Be surely 

his. 
But hasten. Sisters ! for even now the 

tomb 
Grates its slow hinge and calls from the 
I abyss." 

"But not for him," I cried, "not yet for 

him. 
Whose large horizon, westering, star by 

star 
Wins from the void to where on Ocean's 

rim 
The sunset shuts the world with golden 

bar. 
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow 

dim ! 90 

"His shall be larger manhood, saved for 
those 

That walk unblenching through the trial- 
fires; 

Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of 
woes. 

And he no base-born son of craven sires, 

Whose eye need blench confronted with 
his foes. 



300 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"Tears may be ours, but proud, for those 

who win 
Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines ; 
Peace, too, brings tears; and 'mid the 

battle-din. 
The wiser ear some text of God divines, 
For the sheathed blade may rust with 

darker sin. 'oo 

"God, give us peace ! not such as lulls to 
sleep. 

But sword on thigh, and brow with pur- 
pose knit ! 

And let our Ship of State to harbor 
sweep. 

Her ports all up. her battle-lanterns lit. 

And her leashed thunders gathering for 
their leap !" 

So cried I with clenched hands and pas- 
sionate pain. 

Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side; 

Again the loon laughed mocking, and 
again 

The echoes bayed far down the night aiid 
died, 

While waking I recalled my wandering 
brain. "o 

1861. The Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1861. 



THE BIGLOW PAPERS 

SECOND SERIES 

No. I 
The Courtin' ^ 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
Fur 'z you can look or listen. 

Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill. 
All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru' the winder. 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'ith no one nigh to bender. 

1 The only attempt I had ever made at any- 
thing like a pastoral (if that may be called an 
attempt which was the result almost of pure acci- 
dent) was in "The Courtin'." While the Intro- 
duction to the First Series was going through 
the press, I received word from the printer that 
there was a blank page left which must be filled. 
I sat down at once and improvised another fic- 
titious "notice of the press," in which, because 
verse would fill up space more cheaply than prose, 
I inserted an extract from a supposed ballad of 
Mr. Biglow. I kept no copy of it, and the 
printer, as directed, cut it off when the gap was 
tilled. Presently I began to receive letters ask- 



A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in — lo 

There war n't no stoves (tell comfort 
died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest. bless her, 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks himg, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back f'om Concord busted, ^o 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin*. 

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur. 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man. A 1, ^ 
Clear grit an' human natur'. 3° 

None could n't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals. 

Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. 
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 

All is, he could n't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould nm 

All crinkly like curled maple. 
The side she breshed felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 4° 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir; 
My ! when he made Ole Himderd ring, 

She knozvcd the Lord was nigher. 

ing for the rest of it, sometimes for the balance 
of it. I had none, but to answer such demands, 
I patched a conclusion upon it in a later edition. 
Those who had only the first continued to im- 
portune me. Afterward, being asked to write it 
out as an autograph for the Baltimore Sanitary 
Commission Fair, I added other verses, into some 
of which I infused a little more sentiment in a 
homely way, and after a fashion completed it by 
sketching in the characters and making a con- 
nected story. Most likely I have spoiled it, but 
I shall put it at the end of this Introduction, 
to answer once for all those kindly importunings. 
(Lowell, in the "Introduction" to the Biglow 
Papers, 1866.) 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



301 



An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upun it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, so 
For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 



He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 
Some doubtfle o' the sekle. 

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
But hern went pity Zekle. 



60 



An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder. 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 
"Wal ... no ... I come dasignin' " — 

"To see my Ma? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so. 

Or don't, 'ould be persumin'; 7° 

Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 
Then stood a spell on t' other. 

An' on which one he felt the wusf 
He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, "I 'd better call agin ;" 
Says she, "Think likely, Mister :" 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 80 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressin', 9° 

Tell mother see how metters stood. 
An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 



Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 
1848-1866? 

With "Biglow Papers," 1st ser., 1848. 

No. II 

Mason and Slidell: A Yankee Idyll ^ 

I love to start out arter night 's begun, 
An' all the chores about the farm are 

done, 
The critters milked an' foddered, gates 

shet fast, 
Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper 

past, 
An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp, — 
I love, I say, to start upon a tramp, 
To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs. 
An' kind o' rack my life off from the 

dregs 
Thet 's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch 
Of folks thet f oiler in one rut too much: 
Hard work is good an' wholesome, past 

all doubt; _ " 

But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered 

out. 
Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know. 
There 's certin spots where I like best to 

go: 
The Concord road, for instance (I, for 

one, 
Most gin'lly oilers call it John Bull's 

Run) , 
The field o' Lexin'ton where England 

tried 
The fastest colours thet she ever dyed. 
An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he 

came, 
Found was the bee-line track to heaven 

an' fame, ^° 

1 In 1861, John M. Mason and John Slidell, 
commissioners from the Confederacy to England 
and France, after having eluded the Union block- 
ade, were taken off a British steamer and held 
as prisoners of war. Two issues were involved 
in the British demand for their release. To give 
them up was to establish the American conten- 
tion against the analogous act of impressing Brit- 
ish seamen found on neutral vessels; but to give 
them up was to concede that while hostile mes- 
sages were contraband of war, the bearers of 
such messages were not subject to interference. 
The commissioners were surrendered, but the 
whole episode was complicated by the kind of 
acrimonious debate that has accompanied many 
of the decisions in international law during the 
more recent European war. Lowell uttered, 
through the Bridge and the Monument, almost 
all the basic contentions of 1914-1917. 



302 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul 
Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so 's to save 
the toll. 

They 're 'most too fur away, take too 

much time 
To visit of'en, ef it ain't in rhyme; 
But the' 's a walk thet 's hendier, a sight, 
An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's 

night, — 
I mean the round whale's-back o' Pros- 
pect Hill. 
I love to Titer there while night grows 

still. 
An' in the twinklin' villages about, 
Fust here, then there, the well-saved 

lights goes out, 3° 

An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false 

alarms. 
Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy 

farms, 
Where some wise rooster (men act jest 

thet way) 
Stands to 't thet moon-rise is the break 

o' day 
(So Mister Seward sticks a three-months' 

pin 
Where the war 'd oughto eend, then tries 

agin ; 
My gran'ther's rule was safer 'n 't is to 

crow : 
Don't never prophesy — onless ye know). 
I love to muse there till it kind o' seems 
Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in 

dreams ; 40 

The northwest wind thet twitches at my 

baird 
Blows out o' sturdier days not easy 

scared. 
An' the same moon thet this December 

shines 
Starts out the tents an' booths o' Put- 
nam's lines ; 
The rail- fence posts, acrost the hill thet 

runs, 
Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts 

o' guns; 
Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' 

light, 
Along the firelock won at Concord Fight, 
An', 'twixt the silences, now fur, now 

nigh. 
Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low 

reply. so 

Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence, 
Mixin' the puffict with the present tense, 
I heerd two voices som'ers in the air. 
Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where ; 



Voices I call 'em : 't was a kind o' sough 
Like pine-trees thet the wind's ageth'rin 

through ; 
An', fact, I thought it was the wind a 

spell. 
Then some misdoubted, could n't fairly 

tell, 
Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an X 

eel, I 

I knowed, an* did n't, — fin'lly seemed to 

feel 60 

'T was Concord Bridge a talkin' off to kill 
With the Stone Spike thet 's druv thru 

Bunker's Hill; 
Whether 't was so, or ef I on'y dreamed, 
I could n't say; I tell it ez it seemed. 



THE BRIDGE 

Wal, neighbor, tell us wut 's turned up 

thet 's new? 
You 're younger 'n I be, — nigher Boston, 

tu: 
An' down to Boston, ef you take their 

showin', 
Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth 

the knowin'. 
There 's sunthin' goin' on, I know : las' 

night 
The British sogers killed in our gret fight 
(Nigh fifty year they hed n't stirred nor 

spoke) 71 

Made sech a coil you 'd thought a dam 

hed broke : 
Why, one he up an' beat a revellee 
With his own crossbones on a holler tree, 
Till all the graveyards swarmed out like 

a hive 
With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy- 
five. 
Wut is the news? 'T ain't good, or they 'd 

be cheerin'. 
Speak slow an' clear, for I 'm some hard 

o' hearin'. 



THE MONIMENT 

I don't know hardly ef it 's good or bad, — 

THE BRIDGE 

At wust, it can't be wus than wut we 've 
had. 80 

THE MONIMENT 

You know them envys thet the Rebbles 

sent. 
An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the 

Trent? 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



303 



THE BRIDGE 



Wut! they ha'n't hanged 'em? Then their 

wits is gone ! 
Thet 's the sure way to make a goose a 



THE MONIMENT 



No : England she would hev 'em, Fee, 

Faw, Fum! 
(Ez though she hed n't fools enough to 

home), 
So they 've returned 'em — 



THE BRIDGE 

Hev they? Wal, by heaven, 
Thet 's the wust news I 've heerd sence 

Seventy-seven ! 
By George, I meant to say, though I de- 
clare 
It 's 'most enough to make a deacon 
swear. 9° 

THE MONIMENT 

Now don't go off half-cock : folks never 

gains 
By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains. 
Come, neighbor, you don't understan' — 



THE BRIDGE 

How ? Hey ? 
Not understan'? Why, wut 's to hender, 

pray? 
Must I go huntin' round to find a chap 
To tell me when my face hez hed a slap? 

THE MONIMENT 

See here : the British they found out a 

flaw 
In Cap'n Wilkes's readin' o' the law 
(They make all laws, you know, an' so, o' 

course, 
It 's nateral they should understan' their 

force) : _ i°o 

He 'd oughto ha' took the vessel into port, 
An' hed her sot on by a reg'lar court; 
She was a mail-ship, an' a steamer, tu, 
An' thet, they say, hez changed the pint o' 

view, 
Coz the old practice, bein' meant for sails, 
Ef tried upon a steamer, kind o' fails ; 
You may take out despatches, but you 

mus' n't 
Take nary man — 



THE BRIDGE 

You mean to say, you dus' n't! 
Changed pint o' view ! No, no, — it 's over- 
board 
With law an' gospel, when their ox is 

gored ! "o 

I tell ye, England's law, on sea an' land, 
Hez oilers ben, "/ 've gut the heaviest 

hand." 
Take nary man? Fine preachin' from 

her lips ! 
Why, she hez taken hunderds from our 

ships. 
An' would agin, an' swear she had a right 

to, 
Ef we warn't strong enough to be perlite 

to. 
Of all the sarse thet I can call to mind, 
England docs make the most onpleasant 

kind: 
It 's you 're the sinner oilers, she 's the 

saint ; 
Wut 's good 's all English, all thet is n't 

ain't ; 120 

Wut profits her is oilers right an' just. 
An' ef you don't read Scriptur so, you 

must; 
She 's praised herself ontil she fairly 

thinks 
There ain't no light in Natur when she 

winks; 
Hain't she the Ten Comman'ments in her 

pus? 
Could the world stir 'thout she went, tu, 

ez nus? 
She ain't like other mortals, thet 's a 

fact; 
She never stopped the habus-corpus act, 
Nor specie payments, nor she never- yet 
Cut down the int'rest on her public debt; 
She don't put down rebellions, lets 'em 

breed, 131 

An' 's oilers willin' Ireland should secede; 
She 's all thet 's honest, honnable, an' 

fair. 
An' when the vartoos died they made her 

heir. 



THE MONIMENT 

Wal, wal, two wrongs don't never make 

a right; 
Ef we 're mistaken, own up, an' don't 

fight: 
For gracious' sake, ha'n't we enough to 

du 
'thout gettin' up a fight with England, tu? 
She thinks we 're rabble-rid — 



304 



AMERICAN POETRY 



THE BRIDGE 

An' so we can't 
Distinguish 'twixt You otightn 't an' You 

shan't! 140 

She jedges by herself; she 's no idear 
How 't stiddies folks to give 'em their 

fair sheer : 
The odds 'twixt her an' us is plain 's a 

steeple, — 
Her People 's turned to Mob, our Mob 's 

turned People. 



THE MONIMENT 

She 's riled jes' now — 

THE BRIDGE 

Plain proof her cause ain't strong, — 
The one thet fust gits mad 's 'most oilers 

wrong. 
Wh3\ sence she helped in lickin' Nap the 

Fust 
An' pricked a bubble jest agoin' to bust. 
With Rooshy, Prooshy, Austry, all as- 

sistin', 
Th' ain't nut a face but wut she 's shook 

her fist in, _ 150 

Ez though she done it all, an' ten times 

more. 
An' nuthin' never hed gut' done afore. 
Nor never could agin, 'thout she wuz 

spliced 
On to one eend an' gin th' old airth a 

hoist. 
She is some punkins, thet I wun't deny 
(For ain't she some related to you 'n 

I?), 

But there 's a few small intrists here be- 
low 

Outside the counter o' John Bull an' Co, 

An' though they can't conceit how 't 
should be so, 

I guess the Lord druv down Creation's 
spiles 16° 

'thout no grct helpin' from the British 
Isles, 

An' could contrive to keep things pooty 
stiff 

Ef they withdrawed from business in a 
miff; 

I ha'n't no patience with sech swellin' fel- 
lers ez 

Think God can't forge 'thout them to 
blow the bellerses. 



THE MONIMENT 

You 're oilers quick to set your back 
aridge, 

Though 't suits a tom-cat more 'n a sober 
bridge : 

Don't you git het : they thought the thing ] 
was planned; 

They '11 cool off when they come to un- 
derstand. 

THE BRIDGE 

Ef thet 's wut you expect, you '11 hev to 
wait ; 170 

Folks never understand the folks they 
hate: 

She '11 fin' some other grievance jest ez 
good, 

'fore the month 's out, to git misunder- 
stood. 

England cool off! She 'II do it, ef she 
sees 

She 's run her head into a swarm o' bees. 

I ain't so prejudiced ez wut you spose : 

I hev thought England was the best thet 
goes; 

Remember (no, you can't), when / was 
reared, 

God save the King was all the tune you 
heerd : 

But it 's enough to turn Wachuset roun' 

This stumpin' fellers when you think 
they 're down. 181 

THE MONIMENT 

But, neighbor, ef they prove their claim 

at law, 
The best way is to settle, an' not jaw. 
An' don't le' 's mutter 'bout the awfle 

bricks 
We '11 give 'em, ef we ketch 'em in a fix : 
That 'ere 's most frequently the kin' o' 

talk 
Of critters can't be kicked to toe the 

chalk ; 
Your "You '11 see nex' time !" an' "Look 

out bumby !" 
'Most oilers ends in eatin' umble-pie. 
'T wun't pay to scringe to England : will 

it pay 190 

To fear thet meaner bully, old "They '11 

say" ? 
Suppose they du say: words are drefBe 

bores, 
But they ain't quite so bad ez seventy- 
fours. 
Wut England wants is jest a wedge to fit 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



305 



Where it 'II help to widen out our split : 
She 's found her wedge, an' 't ain't for 

us to come 
An' lend the beetle thet 's to drive it 

home. 
For growed-up folks like us 't would be 

a scandle, 
When we git sarsed, to fly right off the 

handle. 
England ain't all bad, coz she thinks us 

blind : 200 

Ef she can't change her skin, she can 

her mind; 
An' we shall see her change it double- 
quick. 
Soon ez we 've proved thet we 're a-goin' 

to lick. 
She an' Columby 's gut to be fas' friends : 
For the world prospers by their privit 

ends : 
'T would put the clock back all o' fifty 

years 
Ef they should fall together by the ears. 



THE BRIDGE 

I 'gree to thet; she 's nigh us to wut 
France is ; 

But then she '11 hev to make the fust ad- 
vances ; 

We 've gut pride, tu, an' gut it by good 
rights, /'o 

An' ketch me stoopin' to pick up the mites 

O' condescension she '11 be lettin' fall 

When she finds out we ain't dead arter 
all! 

I tell ye wut, it takes more 'n one good 
week 

Afore my nose forgits it 's hed a tweak. 



THE MONIMENT 

She '11 come out right bumby, thet I '11 
engage, 

Soon ez she gits to seein' we 're of age ; 

This talkin' down o' hers ain't wuth a 
fuss ; 

It 's nat'ral ez nut likin' 't is to us ; 

Ef we 're agoin' to prove we he growed- 
up, 220 

'T wun't be by barkin' like a tarrier pup, 

But turnin' to an' makin' things ez good 

Ez wut we 're oilers braggin' that we 
could ; 

We 're boun' to be good friends, an' so 
we 'd oughto. 

In spite of all the fools both sides the 
water. 



THE BRIDGE 

I b'lieve thet 's sa; but barken in your 

ear, — 
I 'm older 'n you, — Peace wun't keep 

house with Fear : 
Ef you want peace, the thing you 've gut 

tu du 
Is jest to show you 're up to fightin', tu. 
/ recollect how sailors' rights was won. 
Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' 

gun : 231 

Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he 
Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea; 
You 'd thought he held by Gran'ther 

Adam's will, 
An' ef you knuckle down, he '11 think so 

still. 
Better thet all our ships an' all their crews 
Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless 

ooze. 
Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it 

went. 
An' each dumb gun a brave man's moni- 

ment, 
Than seek sech peace ez only cov/ards 

crave : 240 

Give me the peace of dead men or of 

brave ! 



THE MONIMENT 

I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious Fourth : 
You 'd oughto larned 'fore this wut talk 

wuz worth. 
It ain't our nose thet gits put out o' jint; 
It 's England thet gives up her dearest 

pint. 
We 've gut, I tell ye now, enough to du 
In our own fem'ly fight, afore we 're 

thru. 
I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sumter's 

shame. 
When every flag-staff flapped its tethered 

flame. 
An' all the people, startled from their 

doubt, 250 

Come must'rin' to the flag with sech a 

shout, — 
I hoped to see things settled 'fore this fall. 
The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis hanged, 

an' all ; 
Then come Bull Run, an' sence then I 've 

ben waitin' 
Like boys in Jennooary thaw for skatin', 
Nothin' to du but watch my shadder's 

trace 
Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' my 

base, 



306 



AMERICAN POETRY 



With daylight's flood an' ebb : it 's gittin' 

slow, 
An' I 'most think we 'd better let 'em go. 
I tell ye wut, this war 's a-goin' to cost — 



THE BRIDGE 

An' I tell you it wun't be money lost; 261 
Taxes milks dry, but, neighbor, you 'II 

allow 
Thet havin' things onsettled kills the cow : 
We 've gut to fix this thing for good an' 

all; 
It 's no use buildin' wut 's a-goin' to fall. 
I 'm older 'n you, an' I 've seen things an' 

men, 
An' my experunce, — tell ye wut it 's ben : 
Folks thet worked thorough was the ones 

thet thriv. 
But bad work f oilers ye ez long 's ye live; 
You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez 

sin, 270 

It 's oilers askin' to be done agin : 
Ef we should part, it would n't be a week 
'Fore your soft-soddered peace would 

spring aleak. 
We 've turned our cuffs up, but, to put 

her thru. 
We must git mad an' off with jackets, tu; 
'T wun't du to think thet killin' ain't per- 

lite,— 
You 've gut to be in airnest, ef you fight; 
Why, two thirds o' the Rebbles 'ould cut 

dirt, 
Ef they once thought thet Guv'ment 

meant to hurt; 
An' I du wish our Gin'rals hed in mind 
The folks in front more than the folks 

behind; _ ^^^ 

You wun't do much ontil you think it 's 

God, 
An' not constitoounts, thet holds the rod; 
We want some more o' Gideon's sword, 

I jedge. 
For proclamations ha'n't no gret of edge; 
There 's nothin' for a cancer but the 

knife, 
Onless you set by 't more than by your 

life. 
/ 've seen hard times ; I see a war begun 
Thet folks thet love their bellies never 'd 

won; 
Pharo's lean kine hung on for seven long 

year ; 290 

But when 't was done, we did n't count it 

dear ; 
Why, law an' order, honor, civil right, 
Ef they ain't wuth it, wut is wuth a fight? 



I 'm older 'n you : the plough, the axe, the 

mill. 
All kin's o' labor an' all kin's o' skill, 
Would be a rabbit in a wile-cat's claw, 
Ef 't warn't for thet slow critter, 'stab- 

lished law ; 
Onsettle thet, an' all the world goes whiz, 
A screw 's gut loose in everythin' there is : 
Good buttresses once settled, don't you 
fret 300 

An' stir 'em; take a bridge's word for 

thet! 
Young folks are smart, but all ain't good 

thet 's new ; 
I guess the gran'thers they knowed sun- 
thin', tu. 

THE MONIMENT 

Amen to thet ! build sure in the beginnin' : 
An' then don't never tech the underpin- 

nin' : 
Th' older a guv'ment is, the better 't 

suits ; 
New ones hunt folks's corns out like new 

boots : 
Change jes' for change, is like them big 

hotels 
Where they shift plates, an' let ye Hve on 

smells. 

THE BRIDGE 

Wal, don't give up afore the ship goes 

down : 31° 

It 's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't 

drown ; 
An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or 

swim, 
Ef we don't fail to du wut 's right by 

Him. 
This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be 
A better country than man ever see. 
I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry 
Thet seems to say, "Break forth an' pro- 
phesy !" 
O strange New World, thet yit wast never 

young. 
Whose youth from thee by gripin' need 

was wrung, 
Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose 

baby-bed 320 

Was prowled roun' by the Injun's crack- 

lin' tread, 
An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' 

wants an' pains, 
Nussed by stern men with empires in 

their brains, 
Who saw in vision their young Ishmel 

strain 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



307 



With each hard hand a vassal ocean's 

mane, 
Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret 

events 
To pitch new States ez Old-World men 

pitch tents. 
Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah's 

plan 
Thet man's devices can't unmake a man. 
An' whose free latch-string never was 

drawed in 33° 

Against the poorest child of Adam's kin, — • 
The grave 's not dug where traitor hands 

shall lay 
In fearful haste thy murdered corse 

away! 
I see — 

Jest here some dogs begun to bark. 
So thet I lost old Concord's last remark : 
I listened long, but all I seemed to hear 
Was dead leaves gossipin' on some birch- 
trees near; 
But ez they hed n't no gret things to say, 
An' sed 'em often, I come right away, 
An', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass the 
time, 340 

I put some thoughts thet bothered me in 

rhyme ; 
I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, 
But here they be — it 's 



JONATHAN TO JOHN 

It don't seem hardly right, John, 
When both my hands was full, 
To stump me to a fight, John, — 
Your cousin, tu, John Bull ! 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
We know it now," sez he, 
"The hon's paw is all the law, 3So 

Accordin' to J. B., 
Thet 's fit for you an' me!" 

You wonder why we 're hot, John? 

Your mark wuz on the guns. 
The neutral guns, thet shot, John, 
Our brothers an' our sons : 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
There 's human blood," sez he, 
"By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts. 

Though 't may surprise J. B. 360 

More 'n it would you an' me." 

Ef / turned mad dogs loose, John, 

On your front-parlor stairs. 
Would it jest meet your views, John, 

To wait an' sue their heirs? 



Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
I on'y guess," sez he, 
"Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 
'T would kind o' rile J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me !" 37° 

Who made the law thet hurts, John, 

Heads I win, — ditto tails? 

"J. B." was on his shirts, John, 

Onless my memory fails. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
(I 'm good at thet)," sez he i 

"Thet sauce for goose ain't jest the juice 
For ganders with J. B., 
No more 'n with you or me!" 

When your rights was our wrongs, John, 
You did n't stop for fuss, — 381 

Britanny's trident prongs, John, 
Was good 'nough law for us. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess. 
Though physic 's good," sez he, 

"It does n't foller thet he can swaller 
Prescriptions signed 'J- B.,' 
Put up by you an' me !" 

We own the ocean, tu, John: 

You mus' n' take it hard, 390 

Ef we can't think with you, John, 
It 's jest your own back-yard. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
Ef thet 's his claim," sez he, 
"The fencin'-stuff '11 cost enough 
To bust up friend J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me !" 

Why talk so drefifle big, John, 

Of honor when it meant 
You did n't care a fig, John, 400 

But jest for ten per cent? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
He 's like the rest," sez he 
"When all is done, it 's number one 
Thet 's nearest to J. B., 
Ez wal ez t' you an' me I" 

We give the critters back, John, 

Cos Abram thought 't was right; • 
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, 

Provokin' us to fight. 410 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
We 've a hard row," sez he, 
"To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow. 
May happen to J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me !" 

We ain't so weak an' poor, John, 

With twenty million people. 
An' close to every door, John, 

A school-house an' a steeple. 



308 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 420 
It is a fact," sez he, 
"The surest plan to make a Man 
Is, think him so, J. B., 
Ez much ez you or me !" 

Our folks believe in Law, John; 

An' it 's for her sake, now, 
They 've left the axe an' saw, John, 
The anvil an' the plough. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
Ef 't warn't for law," sez he, 430 

"There 'd be one shindy from here to 
Indy; 
An' thet don't suit J. B. 
(When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)" 

We know we 've got a cause, John, 

Thet 's honest, just, an' true; 
We thought 't would win applause, John, 
Ef nowheres else, frorn you. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
His love of right," sez he, 
"Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton : 44° 
There 's natur' in J. B., 
Ez wal 'z in you an* me!" 

The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, 

An' "All men up!" say we, — 
White, yaller, black, an' brown, John : 
Now which is your idee? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
John preaches wal," sez he ; 
"But, sermon thru, an' come to du. 

Why, there 's the old J. B. 450 

A-crowdin' you an' me !" 

Shall it be love, or hate, John? 

It 's you thet 's to decide ; 
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, 
Like all the world's beside? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
Wise men forgive," sez he, 
"But not forgit; an' some time yit 
Thet truth may strike J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me !" 460 

God means to make this land, John, 

Clear thru, from sea to sea. 
Believe an' understand, John, 
The wuth o' bein' free. 

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
God's price is high," sez he; 
"But nothin' else than wut He sells 
Wears long, an' thet J. B. 
May larn, like you an' me !" 

December, 1861. 

The Atlantic Monthly, Feb., 1862. 



No. X 

Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Editor of the 
Atlantic Monthly 

Dear Sir, — Your letter come to han' 
Requestin' me to please be funny; 
But I ain't made upon a plan 

Thet knows wut 's comin', gall or 
honey : 
Ther' 's times the world does look so 
queer. 
Odd fancies come afore I call 'em; 
An' then agin, for half a year. 

No preacher 'thout a call 's more sol- 
emn. 

You 're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute, 

Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingle- 
ish, 10 

An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit, 

I 'd take an' citify my English. 
I ken write long-tailed, ef I please, — 

But when I 'm jokin', no, I thankee; 
Then, 'fore I know^ it, my idees 

Run helter-skelter into Yankee. 

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme, 

I tell ye wut, I hain't ben foolin' ; 
The parson's books, life, death, an' time 

Hev took some trouble with my school- 
in' ; 20 
Nor th' airth don't git put out with me, 

Thet love her 'z though she wuz a 
woman ; 
Why, th' ain't a bird upon the tree 

But half forgives my bein' human. 

An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way 

or farmers hed when I wuz younger; 
Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay, 

While book-froth seems to whet your 
hunger ; 
For puttin' in a downright lick 

'twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can 
metch it, - 3° 

An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick 

Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hetchet. 

But when I can't, I can't, thet 's all, 

For Natur' won't put up with gullin'; 
Idees you hev to shove an' haul. 

Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein : 
Live thoughts ain't sent for; thru all rifts 

O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards, 
Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts 

Feel thet th' old airth 's a-wheehn' sun- 
wards. 40 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



309 



Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' 
thick 

Ez office-seekers arter 'lection, 
An' into ary place 'ould stick 

Without no bother nor objection; 
But sence the war my thoughts hang back 

Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em, 
An' subs'tutes, — they don't never lack, 

But then they '11 slope afore you 've 
mist 'em. 

Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz ; 

I can't see wut there is to hender, 5° 
An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz, 

Like bumblebees agin a winder; 
'fore these times come, in all airth's row, 

Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in. 
Where I could hide an' think, — but now 

It 's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'. 

Where 's Peace? I start, some clear- 
blown night. 
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' 
number. 
An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white, 
Walk the col' starHght into summer; 6o 
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell 

Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer 
Than the last smile thet strives to tell 
O' love gone heavenward in its shim- 
mer. 

I hev been gladder o' sech things 

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, 
They filled my heart with livin' springs. 

But now they seem to freeze 'em over; 
Sights innercent ez babes on knee, 

Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 7° 
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me 

To rile me more with thoughts o' battle. 

Indoors an' out by spells I try; 

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin'wheel 
goin', 
But leaves my natur' stiff and dry 

Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; 
An' her jes' keepin' on the same. 

Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin', 
An' findin' nary thing to blame, 

Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 8o 

Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane 

The charm makes blazin' logs so pleas- 
ant. 
But I can't hark to wut they 're say'n', 

With Grant or Sherman oilers present; 
The cbimbleys shudder in the gale, 

Thet lulls, then suddin takes to fiappin' 
Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale 

To me ez so much sperit-rappin'. 



Under the yaller-pines I house. 

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet- 
scented, 90 
An' hear among their furry boughs 

The baskin' west-wind purr contented, 
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low 

Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', 
The wedged wil' geese their bugles 
blow, 

Further an' further South retreatin'. 

Or up the slippery knob I strain 

An' see a hundred hills hke islan's 
Lift their blue woods in broken chain 

Out o' the sea o' snowy silence; loo 

The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth. 

Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin' 
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth 

Of empty places set me thinkin'. 

Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, 

An' rattles di'mon's from his granite; 
Time wuz, he snatched away my prose, 

An' into psalms or satires ran it; 
But he, nor all the rest thet once 

Started my blood to country-dances, "» 
Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce 

Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fan- 
cies. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street 

I hear the drummers makin' riot, 
An' I set thinkin' o' the feet 

Thet follered once an' now are quiet, — 
White feet ez snowdrops innercent, 

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, 
Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet 
won't. 

No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. 120 

Why, hain't I held 'em on my kneepi 

Did n't I love to see 'em growin', 
Three likely lads ez wal could be, 

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu know- 
in'? 
I set an' look into the blaze 

Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps 
climbin', 
Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways. 

An' half despise myself for rhymin'. 

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' 
truth 

On War's red techstone rang true metal, 
Who ventered life an' love an' youth 131 

For the gret prize o' death in battle? 

^ Lowell had three nephews who were killed 
during the war. 



310 



AMERICAN POETRY 



To him who, deadly hurt, agen 
Flashed on afore the charge's thunder,^ 

Tippin' with fire the bolt of men 
Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? 

'T ain't right to hev the young go fust, 

All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, 
Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust 

To try an make b'lieve fill their places : 
Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, mi 

Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay 
in. 
An' thet world seems so fur from this 

Lef for us loafers to grow gray in ! 

My eyes cloud Up for rain ; my mouth 

Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners ; 
I pity mothers, tu, down South, 

For all they sot among the scorners : 
I'd sooner take my chance to stan' 

At Jedgment where your meanest slave 
is, ISO 

Than at God's bar hoi' up a han' 

Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis ! 

Come, Peace ! not like a mourner bowed 

For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, 
But proud, to meet a people proud. 

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted ! 
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt. 

An' step thet proves ye Victory's daugh- 
ter ! 
Longin' for you, our sperits wilt 

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for 
water. 160 

Come, while our country feels the lift 

Of a gret instinct shoutin' "Forwards !" 
An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift 

Thet tarries long in ban's o' cowards ! 
Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when 

They kissed their cross with lips thet 
quivered. 
An' bring fair wages for brave men 

A nation saved, a race delivered ! 

The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1865. 

ON BOARD THE '76 

Written for Mr. Bryant's Seventieth 
Birthday, November 3, 1864. 

Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, 
Her rudder gone, her mainmast o'er the 

side; 
Her scuppers, from the waves' clutch 

staggering free, 

^ General Charles Russell Lowell, a nephew, 
at the battle of Cedar Creek, in which he' was 
mortally wounded. 



Trailed threads of priceless crimson 
through the tide; 
Sails, shrouds, and spars with pirate can- 
non torn, 
We lay, awaiting morn. 

Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks de- 
spair ; 
And she that bare the promise of the 
world 
Within her sides, now hopeless, helmless, 
bare. 
At random o'er the wildering waters 
hurled ; 10 

The reek of battle drifting slow alee 
Not sullener than we. 

Morn came at last to peer into our woe. 
When lo, a sail ! Now surely help was 
nigh; 
The red cross flames aloft, Christ's 
pledge; but no. 
Her black guns grinning hate, she 
rushes by 
And hails us : — "Gains the leak ! Ay, so 
we thought ! 
Sink, then, with curses fraught!" 

I leaned against my gun still angry-hot. 
And my lids tingled with the tears held 
back : 20 

This scorn methought was crueller than 
shot: 
The manly death-grip in the battle- 
wrack. 
Yard-arm to yard-arm, were more friendly 
far 
Than such fear-smothered war. 

There our foe wallowed, like a wounded 
brute 
The fiercer for his hurt. What now 
were best? 
Once more tug bravely at the peril's root. 
Though death came with it? Or evade 
the test 
If right or wrong in this God's world of 
ours 
Be leagued with mightier powers? 3° 

Some, faintly loyal, felt their pulses lag 
With the slow beat that doubts and 
then despairs ; 
Some, caitiff, would have struck the starry 
flag 
That knits us with our past, and makes 
us heirs 
Of deeds high-hearted as were ever done 
'Neath the all-seeing sun. 






JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



311 



But there was one, the Singer of our crew, 
Upon whose head Age waved his peace- 
ful sign, 
But whose red heart's-blood no surrender 
knew; 
And couchant under brows of massive 
Hne, 40 

The eyes, like guns beneath a parapet. 
Watched, charged with lightnings yet. 

The voices of the hills did his obey; 
The torrents flashed and tumbled in his 
song; 
He brought our native fields from far 
away. 
Or set' us 'mid the innumerable throng 
Of dateless woods, or where we heard the 
calm 
Old homestead's evening psalm. 

But now he sang of faith to things unseen. 
Of freedom's birthright given to us in 
trust ; 50 

And words of doughty cheer he spoke be- 
tween. 
That made all earthly fortune seem as 
dust. 
Matched with that duty, old as Time and 
new. 
Of being brave and true. 

We, listening, learned what makes the 
might of words, — 
Manhood to back them, constant as a 
star; 
His voice rammed home our cannon, 
edged our swords, 
And sent our boarders shouting; shroud 
and spar 
Heard him and stiffened; the sails heard, 
and wooed 
The winds with loftier mood. 60 



In our dark hovrs he manned our guns 
again ; 
Remanned ourselves from his own man- 
hood's stores ; 
Pride, honor, country, throbbed through 
all his strain; 
And shall we praise? God's praise was 
his before; 
And on our futile laurels he looks down, 
Himself our bravest crown. 

1864. 

The Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1865. 



ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION i 

July 21, 1865. 



Weak-winged is song. 
Nor aims at that clear-ethered height 
Whither the brave deed climbs for light: 

We seem to do them wrong. 
Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their 

hearse 
Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler 

verse. 
Our trivial song to honor those who 

come 
With ears attuned to strenuous trump and 

drum. 
And shaped in squadron-strophes their 

desire. 
Live battle-odes whose lines were steel 

and fire : 10 

Yet sometimes feathered words are 

strong, 
A gracious memory to buoy up and save 
From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the com- 
mon grave 
Of the unventurous throng. 



To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes 
back 
Her wisest Scholars, those who under- 
stood 
The deeper teaching of her mystic tome. 
And offered their fresh Hves to make it 
good : 

No lore of Greece or^Rome, 
No science peddling with the names of 
things, 20 

Or reading stars to find inglorious fates. 

Can lift our life with wings 
Far from Death's idle gulf that for the 
many waits. 
And lengthen out our dates . 
With that clear fame whose memory sings 
In manly hearts to come, and nerves them 

and dilates : 
Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all! 
Not such the trumpet-call 
Of thy diviner mood, 
That could thy sons entice 3° 

From happy homes and toils, the fruitful 

nest 
Of those half-virtues which the world 
calls best, 

* Written for a memorial exercise July 21, 
1865, in commemoration of the ninety-three Har- 
vard men who had been killed in the Civil War. 



312 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Into War's tumult rude; 
But rather far that stern device 
The sponsors chose that round thy cradle 
stood 
In the dim, unventured wood, 
The Veritas that lurks beneath 
The letter's unprolific sheath, 
Life of whate'er makes life worth liv- 
ing, 
Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal 
food, 40 

One heavenly thing whereof earth hath 
the giving. 



Many loved Truth, and lavished Hfe's best 
oil 
Amid the dust of books to find her, 
Content at last, for guerdon of their toil. 
With the cast mantle she hath left be- 
hind her. 
Many in sad faith sought for her. 
Many with crossed hands sighed for 

her; 
But these, our brothers, fought for 

her. 
At life's dear peril wrought for her, 
So loved her that they died for her, so 
Tasting the raptured fleetness 
Of her divine completeness : 
Their higher instinct knew 
Those love her best who to themselves 

are true. 
And what they dare to dream of, dare to 
do; 
They followed her and found her 
Where all may hope to find, 
Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind. 
But beautiful, with danger's sweetness 
round her. 
Where faith made whole with deed 60 
Breathes its awakening breath 
Into the lifeless creed, 
They saw her plumed and mailed. 
With sweet, stern face unveiled. 
And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them 
in death. 

IV 

Our slender life runs rippling by, and 
glides 
Into the silent hollow of the past; 

What is there that abides 
To make the next age better for the 
last? 
Is earth too poor to give us 7° 

Something to live for here that shall 
outlive us? 



Some more substantial boon 
Than such as flows and ebbs with For- 
tune's fickle moon? 
The little that we see 
From doubt is never free; 
The little that we do 
Is but half-nobly true; 
With our laborious hiving 
What men call treasure, and the gods call 
dross, 
Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, 8° 
Only secure in every one's conniving, 
A long account of nothings paid with 

loss, 
Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen 
wires, 
After our little hour of strut and rave, 
With all our pasteboard passions and de- 
sires, 
Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal 
fires. 
Are tossed pell-mell together in the 

grave. 
But stay ! no age was e'er degenerate. 
Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, 
For in our likeness still we shape our 
fate. _ 90 

Ah, there is something here 
Un fathomed by the cynic's sneer. 
Something that gives our feeble light 
A high immunity from Night, 
Something that leaps life's narrow bars 
To claim its birthright with the hosts of 
heaven ; 
A seed of sunshine that can leaven 
Our earthly dullness with the beams of 
stars. 
And glorify our clay 
With light from fountains elder than 
the Day; 1°° 

A conscience more divine than we, 
A gladness fed with secret tears, 
A vexing, forward-reaching sense 
Of some more noble permanence; 
A light across the sea, 
Which haunts the soul and will not let 
it be. 
Still beaconing from the heights of unde- 
generate years. 



Whither leads the path 
To ampler fates that leads? 
Not down through flowery meads, 
To reap an aftermath "i 

Of youth's vainglorious weeds. 
But up the steep, amid the wrath 
And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



313 



Where the world's best hope and stay 
By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, 
And every turf the fierce foot clings to 
bleeds. 
Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, 
Ere yet the sharp, decisive word 
Light the black lips of cannon, and the 
sword 120 

Dreams in its easeful sheath ; 
But some day the live coal behind the 
thought, 
Whether from Baal's stone obscene. 
Or from the shrine serene 
Of God's pure altar brought. 
Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue 

and pen 
Learns with what deadly purpose it was 

fraught. 
And, helpless in the fiery passion caught. 
Shakes all the pillared state with shock 

of men : 
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed 130 
Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued. 
And cries reproachful : "Was it, then, my 

praise, 
And not myself was loved? Prove now 

thy truth; 
I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; 
Give me thy life, or cower in empty 

phrase. 
The victim of thy genius, not its mate !" 
Life may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to Truth be sealed, 
As bravely in the closet as the field, 

So bountiful is Fate; 140 

But then to stand beside her, 
When craven churls deride her. 
To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 
This shows, methinks, God's plan 
And measure of a stalwart man, 
Limbed like the old heroic breeds. 
Who stands self-poised on manhood's 
solid earth. 
Not forced to frame excuses for his 
birth. 
Fed from within with all the strength he 
needs. 

VI 

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, iso 

Whom late the Nation he had led, 
With ashes on her head, 

Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 

Forgive me, if from present things I 
turn 

To speak what in my heart will beat and 
burn. 

And hang my wreath on his world-hon- 
ored urn. 



Nature, they say, doth dote. 
And cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan. 
Repeating us by rote : ^^° 

For him her Old- World moulds aside she 
threw. 
And choosing sweet clay from the 

breast 
Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new. 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, 
and true. 
How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind in- 
deed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to 

lead; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to 
be. 
Not lured by any cheat of birth, 170 
But by his clear-grained human worth, 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

They knew that outward grace is 

dust; 
They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering 
skill, 
And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again 
and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak of 

mind, 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy 

bars, 
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors 
blind ; 180 

Broad prairie rather, genial, level- 
lined. 
Fruitful and friendly for all human 
kind. 
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of 
loftiest stars. 
Nothing of Europe here. 
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward 
still. 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme deface 
And thwart her genial will; 
Here was a type of the true elder 
race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with 
us face to face. ^9° 

I praise him not; it were too late; 
And some innative weakness there must 

. ^e 
In him who condescends to victory 

Such as the Present gives, and cannot 

wait, 

Safe in himself as in a fate. 



314 



AMERICAN POETRY 



So always firmly he: 
He knew to bide his time, 
And can his fame abide, 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 

Till the wise years decide. 200 
Great captains, with their guns and 
drums, 
Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
But at last silence comes ; 
These all are gone, and, standing like a 

tower, 
Our children shall behold his fame. _ 
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing 
man. 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not 
blame, 
New birth of our new soil, the first 
American. 

vn 

Long as man's hope insatiate can dis- 
cern 
Or only guess some more inspiring 
goaj 210 

Outside of Self, enduring as the pole. 
Along whose course the flying axles 

burn 
Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's man- 
lier brood; 
Long as below we cannot find 
The meed that stills the inexorable 

mind; 
So long this faith to some ideal Good, 
Under whatever mortal names it masks. 
Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal 
mood 
That thanks the Fates for their severer 
tasks, 
Feeling its challenged pulses leap, 220 
While others skulk in subterfuges cheap. 
And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon 
it asks, 
Shall win man's praise and woman's 

love, 
Shall be a wisdom that we set above 
All other skills and gifts to culture dear, 
A virtue round whose forehead we in- 

wreathe 
Laurels that with a living passion 
breathe 
When other crowns grow, while we twine 
them, sear. 
What brings us thronging these high 
rites to pay. 
And seal these hours the noblest of our 
year, 230 

Save that our brothers found this better 
way? 



vm 

We sit here in the Promised Land 
That flows with Freedom's honey and 

milk; 
But 't was they won it, sword in hand, 
Making the nettle danger soft for us as 
silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and our 

best; — 
Ah me ! not all ! some come not with 
the rest. 
Who went forth brave and bright as any 

here! 
I strive to mix some gladness with my 
strain. 
But the sad strings complain, 240 
And will not please the ear : 
I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 

Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away, in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb 

turf wraps, 
Dark to the triumph which they died to 
gain: 
Fitlier may others greet the living. 
For me the past is unforgiving; 

I with uncovered head 250 

Salute the sacred dead. 
Who went, and who return not. — Say not 

so! 
'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay, 
But the high faith that failed not by the 

way; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in the 

grave ; 
No ban of endless night exiles the brave ; 

And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that stayed be- 
hind. 
Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! 
For never shall their aureoled presence 
lack : 260 

I see them muster in a gleaming row, 
With ever-youthful brows that nobler 

show; 
We find in our dull road their shining 
track ; 

In every nobler mood 
We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 
Part of our life's unalterable good, 
Of all our saintlier aspiration; 

They come transfigured back. 
Secure from change in their high-hearted 

ways, 
Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 270 
Of morn on their white Shields of Ex- 
pectation ! 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



315 



IX 

But is there hope to save 
Even this ethereal essence from the 

grave ? 
What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle 

wrong 
Save a few clarion names, or golden 

threads of song? 

Before my musing eye 
The mighty ones of old sweep by, 
Disvoiced now and insubstantial things. 
As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of 

kings, 
Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, 
And many races, nameless long ago, 281 
To darkness driven by that imperious 

gust 
Of ever-rushing Time that here doth 

blow : 
O visionary world, condition strange, 
Where naught abiding is but only 

Change, 
Where the deep-bolted stars themselves 

still shift and range ! 
Shall we to more continuance make pre- 
tence? 
Renown builds tombs ; a life - estate is 

Wit; 

And, bit by bit. 
The cunning years steal all from us but 

woe ; 290 

Leaves are we, whose decays ho harvest 

sow. 

But, when we vanish hence, 
Shall they lie forceless in the dark be- 
low, 
Save to make green their little length 

of sods. 
Or deepen pansies for a year or two. 
Who now to us are shining-sweet as 

gods? 
Was dying all they had the skill to do? 
That were not fruitless : but the Soul 

resents 
Such short-lived, service, as if blind 

events 
Ruled without her, or earth could so 

endure ; 300 

She claims a more divine investiture 
Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents ; 
Whate'er she touches doth her nature 

share ; 
Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air. 

Gives eyes to mountains blind. 
Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the 

wind. 
And her clear trump sings succor every- 
where 
By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; 



For soul inherits all that soul could 
dare : 309 

Yea, Manhood hath a wider span 
And larger privilege of life than man. 
The single deed, the private sacrifice, 
So radiant now through proudly-hidden 

tears. 
Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes 
With thoughtless drift of the deciduous 

years ; 
But that high privilege that makes all 

men peers. 
That leap of heart whereby a people rise 
Up to a noble anger's height. 
And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, 
but grow more bright. 
That swift validity in noble veins, 320 
Of choosing danger and disdaining 
shame. 
Of being set on flame 
By the pure fire that flies all contact 
base 
But wraps its chosen with angelic might, 
These are imperishable gains. 
Sure as the sun, medicinal as light. 
These hold great futures in their lusty 
reins 
And certify to earth a new imperial race. 



Who now shall sneer? 
Who dare again to say we trace 33° 
Our lines to a plebeian race? 
Roundhead and Cavalier ! 
Dumb are those names erewhile in battle 

loud ; 
Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud. 

They flit across the ear : 
That is best blood that hath most iron 

in 't. 
To edge resolve with, pouring without 
stint 
For what makes manhood dear. 
Tell us not of Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods 
crawl 340 

Down from some victor in a border- 
brawl ! 
How poor their outworn coronets,^ 
Matched with one leaf of that plain civic 

wreath 
Our brave for honor's blazon shall be- 
queath, 
Through whose desert a rescued Nation 
sets 
Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears 
Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears 
With vain resentments and more vain 
regrets ! 



316 



AMERICAN POETRY 



XI 

Not in anger, not in pride, 
Pure from passion's mixture rude 35o 
Ever to base earth allied, 
But with far-heard gratitude, 
Still with heart and voice renewed. 
To heroes living and dear martyrs 
dead, 
The strain should close that consecrates 
our brave. 
Lift the heart and lift the head! 
Lofty be its mood and grave, 
Not without a martial ring, 
Not without a prouder tread 
And a peal of exultation : 360 

Little right has he to sing 
Through whose heart in such an hour 
Beats no march of conscious power, 
Sweeps no tumult of elation! 
'T is no Man we celebrate. 
By his country's victories great, 
A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, 
But the pith and marrow of a Nation 
Drawing force from all her men, 
Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 37° 
For her time of need, and then 
Pulsing it again through them. 
Till the basest can no longer cower. 
Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, 
Touched but in passing by her mantle- 
hem. 
Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is 
her dower ! 
If his passions, hopes, and fears, 
How could poet ever tower. 
If his triumphs and his tears. 
Kept not measure with his people? 380 
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and 

waves ! 
Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking 

steeple ! 
Banners, advance with triumph, bend your 
staves ! 
And from every mountain-peak 
Let beacon-fire to answering beacon 

speak, 
Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface 
he. 
And so leap on in light from sea to sea. 
Till the glad news be sent 
Across a kindling continent. 
Making earth feel more firm and air 
breathe braver : 390 

"Be proud ! for she is saved, and all have 
helped to save her ! 
She that lifts up the manhood of the 

poor, 
She of the open soul and open door, 



With room about her hearth for all 

mankind ! 
The fire is dreadful in her eyes no 

more; 
From her bold front the helm she 

doth unbind, 
Sends all her handmaid armies back 

to spin. 
And bids her navies, that so lately 

hurled 
Their crashing battle, hold their 

thunders in, 
Swimming like birds of calm along 

the unharmful shore. 400 

No challenge sends she to the elder 

world. 
That looked askance and hated; a 

light scorn 
Plays o'er her mouth, as round her 

mighty knees 
She calls her children back, and waits 

the morn 
Of nobler day, enthroned between her 

subject seas." 



Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast 
found release ! 
Thy God, in these distempered days. 
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of 
His ways. 
And through thine enemies hath wrought 
thy peace ! 
Bow down in prayer and praise ! 410 
No poorest in thy borders but may now 
Lift to the juster skies a man's enfran- 
chised brow. 
O Beautiful! my country! ours once 

more ! 
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled 

hair 
O'er such sweet brows as never other 
wore, " 
And letting thy set lips. 
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, 
The rosy edges of their smile lay bare. 
What words divine of lover or of poet 
Could tell our love and make thee know 

it, 
Among the Nations bright beyond com- 
pare ? +21 
What were our lives without thee? 
What all our lives to save thee? 
We reck not what we gave thee; 
We will not dare to doubt thee, 
But ask whatever else, and we will dare ! 

1865. The Atlantic Monthly, Sept., 1865. 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 

(1861-1865) 

(Under this heading are included re'presentative verse which would not otherwise have appeared 
in this volume. A full list of the po^ms of the War printe-d in the index, ittcludes celso contributions 
on this fruitful theme from Bryant, Whittier, Lowell, Timrod, Hayne, Longfellow, Hoimes, Lanier, 
and Whitman.) 



HOW OLD BROWN TOOK 
HARPER'S FERRY 1 

Edmund Clarence Stedman 

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a 
steadfast Yankee farmer, 
Brave and godly, with four sons, all 
stalwart men of might. 
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and 
the Border-strife grew warmer. 
Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in 
his absence, in the night; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Came homeward in the morning — to find 
his house burned down. 

Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly 
fought for freedom; 
Smote from border unto border the 
fierce, invading band; 
And he and his brave boys vowed — so 
might Heaven help and speed 'em ! — 
They would save those grand old 
prairies from the curse that blights 
the land; " 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us !" and 
he shoved his ramrod down. 

And the Lord did aid these men, and they 
labored day and even. 
Saving Kansas from its peril; and their 
very lives seemed charmed. 
Till the ruffians killed one son, in the 
blessed light of Heaven, — 
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as 
he journeyed all unarmed; 
Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 20 

Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and 
frowned a terrible frown ! 

^ Printed without signature, under the title 
"John Brown's Invasion." Emerson, who is 
said to have often enjoyed reading this aloud 
to his family, included it in his volume of selec- 
tions, "Parnassus." 



Then they seized another brave boy, — ^not 
amid the heat of battle. 
But in peace, behind his ploughshare, — • 
and they loaded him with chains. 
And with pikes, before their horses, even 
as they goad their cattle. 
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and 
at last blew out his brains; 
Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Raised^ his right hand up to Heaven, call- 
ing Heaven's vengeance down. 

And he swore a fearful oath, by the name 
of the Almighty, 
He would hunt this ravening evil that 
had scathed and torn him so ; 3° 

He would seize it by the vitals ; he would 
crush it day and night; he 
Would so pursue its footsteps, so re- 
turn it blow for blow. 
That Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Should be a name to swear by, in back- 
woods or in town ! 

Then his beard became more grizzled, and 
his wild blue eye grew wilder. 
And more sharply curved his hawk's- 
nose, snuffing battle from afar; 
And he and the two boys left, though the 
Kansas strife waxed milder, 
Grew more sullen, till was over the 
bloody Border War, 

And Old Brown, 4° 

Osawatomie Brown, 
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his 
fearful glare and frown. 

So he left the plains of Kansas and their 
bitter woes behind him, 
Slipt ofif into Virginia, where the states- 
men all are born. 
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no 
one knew where to find him. 
Or whether he'd turned parson, or was 
jacketed and shorn; 



317 



318 



AMERICAN POETRY 



For Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Mad as he was, knew texts enough to 
wear a parson's gown. 

He bought no ploughs and harrows 
spades and shovels, and such trifles ; 
But quietly to his rancho there came by 
every train, 5i 

Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his 
well-beloved Sharp's rifles ; 
And eighteen other madmen joined 
their leader there again. 
Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
"Boys, we've got an army large enough to 
march and take the town ! 



"Take the town, and seize the muskets, 
free the negroes and then arm them; 
Carry the County and the State, ay, 
and all the potent South. 
On their own heads be the slaughter, if 
their victims rise to harm them — 
These Virginians ! who believed not, nor 
would heed the warning mouth." 6° 
Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
"The world shall see a Republic, or my 
name is not John Brown." 

'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the 
evening of a Sunday: 
"This good work," declared the cap- 
tain, "shall be on a holy night !" 
It was on a Sunday evening, and before 
the noon of Monday, 
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, 
fifteen privates black and white. 
Captain Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and 
knocked the sentry down; 70 

Took the guarded armory-building, and 
the muskets and the cannon ; 
Captured all the county majors and the 
colonels, one by one; 
Scared to death each gallant scion of Vir- 
ginia they ran on 
And before the noon of Monday, I 
say, the deed was done. 
Mad old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
And the bold two thousand citizens ran 
off and left the town. 



Then was riding and railroading and 
expressing here and thither; 
And Martinsburg Sharpshooters and 
the Charlestown Volunteers, 
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester 
Militia hastened whither 80 

Old Brown was said to muster his ten 
thousand grenadiers. 
General Brown ! 
Osawatomie Brown ! ! 
Behind whose rampant banner all the 
North was pouring down. 

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners es- 
caped from Old Brown's durance, 
And the effervescent valor of the Chiv- 
alry broke out. 
When they learned that nineteen madmen 
had the marvellous assurance — 
Only nineteen — thus to seize the place 
and drive them straight about; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 9° 

Found an army come to take him, en- 
camped around the town. 

But to storm, with all the forces I have 
mentioned, was too risky; 
So they hurried off to Richmond for 
the Government Marines, 
Tore them from their weeping matrons, 
fired their souls with Bourbon whis- 
key. 
Till they battered down Brown's castle 
with their ladders and machines ; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut 
on his brave old crown. 

Tallyho ! the old Virginia gentry gather 
to the baying ! 
In they r»ished and killed the game, 
shooting lustily away; 100 

And whene'er they slew a rebel, those 
who came too late for slaying, 
Not to lose a share of glory, fired their 
bullets in his clay; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and 
between them laid him down. 

How the conquerors wore their laurels; 
how they hastened on the trail; 
How Old Brown was placed, half dy- 
ing, on the Charlestown court-house 
floor; 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



319 



How he spoke his grand oration, in the 
scorn of all denial; 
What the brave old madman told them, 
— these are known the country o'er. 
"Hang Old Brown, "o 

Osawatomie Brown," 
Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" 
with his most judicial frown. 

But, Virginians, don't do it ! for I tell 
you that the flagon, 
Filled with blood of Old Brown's off- 
spring, was first poured by Southern 
hands ; 
And each drop from Old Brown's life- 
veins, like the red gore of the dragon, 
May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing 
through your slave-worn lands ! 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
May trouble you more than ever, when 
you've nailed his coffin down ! 

The New York Tribune, Nov. 12, 1859. 



THE GREAT BELL ROLAND 

Suggested by the President's Call for 
Volunteers. 

Theodore Tilton 



Toll! Roland, toll! 

— High in St. Bavon's tower, 

At midnight hour, 

The great bell Roland spoke. 
And all who slept in Ghent awoke, 

— What meant its iron stroke? 

Why caught each man his blade? 

Why the hot haste he made? 

Why echoed every street 

With tramp of thronging feet — i° 
All flying to the city's wall? 

It was the call 

Known well to all. 
That Freedom stood in peril of some foe: 
And even timid hearts grew bold 

Whenever Roland tolled, 
And every hand a sword could hold; — 
For men 
Were patriots then. 

Three hundred years ago! 20 



Toll! Roland, toll! 
Bell never yet was hung, 
Between whose lips there swung 
So true and brave a tongue ! 



— If men be patriots still, 
At thy first sound 
True hearts will bound. 
Great souls will thrill — 

Then toll ! and wake the test 
In each man's breast. 

And let him stand confess'd ! 



30 



Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
— Not in St. Bavon's tower 
At midnight hour, — 
Nor by the Scheldt, nor far-off Zuyder 
Zee; 
But here — this side the sea ! 
And here in broad, bright day! 

Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
For not by night awaits 
A brave foe at the gates, 4° 

But Treason stalks abroad — inside ! — at 
noon ! 
Toll ! Thy alarm is not too soon ! 
To arms ! Ring out the Leader's call ! 
Reecho it from East to West, 
Till every dauntless breast 
Swell beneath plume and crest! 
Toll! Roland, toll! 
Till swords from scabbards leap ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
— What tears can widows weep 5° 
Less bitter than when brave men fall ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Till cottager from cottage-wall 
Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun — 
The heritage of sire to son, 
Ere half of Freedom's work was done ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
Till son, in memory of his sire. 

Once more shall load and fire ! 
Toll! Roland, toll! 60 

Till volunteers find out the art 
Of aiming at a traitor's heart! 



Toll ! Roland, toll ! 
— St. Bavon's stately tower 
Stands to this hour, — 
And by its side stands Freedom yet in 
Ghent ; 
For when the bells now ring. 
Men shout, "God save the King!" 
Until the air is rent ! 
— Amen ! — So let it be ; 7° 

For a true king is he 
Who keeps his people free. 
Toll! Roland, toll! 
This side the sea! 



320 



AMERICAN POETRY 



No longer they, but we, 
Have now such need of thee ! 

Toll! Roland, toll! 
And let thy iron throat 
Ring out its warning note, 
Till Freedom's perils be out braved, So 
And Freedom's flag, wherever waved, 
Shall overshadow none enslaved! 
Toll I till from either ocean's strand, 
Brave men shall clasp each other's hand, 
And shout, "God save our native land !" 
— And love the land which God hath 
saved ! 

Toll !. Roland, toll ! 

Independent, April 18, 1861. 

THE PICKET-GUARD 
Ethel Lynn Beers. 

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

"Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and 
then, 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men. 

Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dream- 
ing ; 1° 
Their tents in the rays o'f the clear 
autumn moon, 
Or the light of the watch-fire, are 
gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest leaves softly is 
creeping, 
While the stars up above, with their glit- 
tering eyes, 
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's 
tread 
As he tramps from the rock to the 
fountain, 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle- 
bed 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 20 
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and 
grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the children 
asleep — 
For their mother — may Heaven- defend 
her! 



The moon seems to shine just as brightly 
as then 
That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-mur- 
mured vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his 
eyes, 
He dashes off tears that are welling, 3° 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place 
As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine- 
tree ; 
The footstep is lagging and weary; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad 
belt of light. 
Towards the shade of the forest so 
dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled 
the leaves? 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flash- 
ing? 
It looked like a rifle. . . . "Ha ! Mary, 
goodby !" 
The red life-blood is ebbing and plash- 
ing. 40 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night — 
No sound save the rush of the river, 
While soft falls the dew on the face of 
the dead — 
The picket's off duty forever ! 

November, 1861. 

FAREWELL TO BROTHER 
JONATHAN 1 

By Caroline 

Farewell ! we must part ; we have turned 
from the land 

Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyran- 
nous hand. 

Who assumed all our rights as a favor 
to grant, 

And whose smile ever covered the sting 
of a taunt; 

Who breathed on the fame he was bound 

to defend, — 
Still. the craftiest foe, 'neath the guise of 

a friend; 
Who believed that our bosoms would 

bleed at a touch. 
Yet could never believe he could goad 

them too much ; 

* See "Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister 
Caroline," by Holmes, page 440. 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



321 



Whose conscience affects to be seared 

with our sin, 
Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in ; ^° 
The mote in our eye so enormous has 

grown, 
That he never perceived there's a beam 

in his own. 

O Jonathan, Jonathan ! vassal of pelf, 
Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every 

inch self. 
Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast, 
But was dumb when the foemen invaded 

our coast. 

In vain did your country appeal to you 

then, 
You coldly refused her your money and 

men; 
Your trade interrupted, you slunk from 

her wars, 
And preferred British gold to the Stripes 

and the Stars ! 20 

Then our generous blood was as water 

poured forth. 
And the sons of the South were the 

shields of the North; 
Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave 

o'er, 
Till the foe you had • fed we had driven 

from the shore ! 

Long years we have suffered opprobrium 
and wrong. 

But we clung to your side with affection 
so strong. 

That at last, in mere wanton aggression, 
you broke 

All the ties of our hearts with one mur- 
derous stroke. 

We are tired of contest for what is our 

own. 
We are sick of a strife that could never 

be done; 3° 

Thus our love has died out, and its altars 

are dark. 
Not Prometheus's self could rekindle the 

spark. 

O Jonathan, Jonathan ! deadly the sin. 
Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of 

your kin ; 
And shameful the spirit that gloats over 

wives 
And maidens despoiled of their honor 

and lives ! 



Your palaces rise from the fruits of our 
toil. 

Your millions are fed from the wealth 
of our soil; 

The balm of our air brings the health to 
your cheek; 

And our hearts are aglow with the wel- 
come we speak. 40 

O brother! beware how you seek us again,' 

Lest you brand on your forehead the sig- 
net of Cain; 

That blood and that crime on your con- 
science must sit ; 

We may fall — we may perish — but never 
submit ! 



The pathway that leads to the Pharisee's 

door 
We remember, indeed, but we tread it no 

more; 
Preferring to turn, with the Publican's 

faith, 
To the path through the valley and 

shadow of death ! 

1861. 



THE HEART OF LOUISIANA 
Harriet Stanton 

Oh ! let me weep, while o'er our land 
Vile discord strides, with sullen brow. 

And drags to earth, with ruthless hand. 
The flag no tyrant's power could bow ! 

Trailed in the dust, inglorious laid, 
While one by one her stars retire, 

And pride and power pursue the raid, 
That bids our liberty expire. 

Aye, let me weep ! for surely Heaven 
In anger views the unholy strife; 1° 

And angels weep that thus is riven 
The tie that give to Freedom life. 

I cannot shout — I will not sing 
Loud pasans o'er a severed tie ; 

And draped in woe, in tears I fling 
Our State's new flag to greet the sky. 

I can but choose, while senseless zeal 
And lawless hate is clothed with power. 

The bitter cup; but still I feel 
The sadness of this parting hour! 20 



322 



AMERICAN POETRY 



I know that thousand hearts will bleed 
While loud huzzas the welkin rend; 

The thoughtless crowd will shout, Secede ! 
But ah! will this the conflict end? 

Oh ! let me weep and prostrate lie 
Low at the footstool of my God; 

I cannot breathe one note of joy, 
While yet I feel His chastening rod. 

Sure, we have as a nation sinned — 
Let every heart its folly own, 3° 

And sackcloth, as a girdle bind. 

And mourn our glorious Union gone ! 

Sisters, farewell ! You know not half 
The pain your pride, injustice, give; 

You spurn our cause, and lightly laugh, 
And hope no more the wrong shall live. 

New Orleans Delta, 1861. 



MARYLAND 
James R. Randall 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Hark to wand'ring son's appeal, 

Maryland ! ^o 

My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 
Maryland ! 

For life and death, for woe and weal. 

Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 

And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
Maryland! My Maryland! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland 1 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 20 

Remember Carroll's sacred trust ; 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,— 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland I 
Come ! with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 



With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood, at Monterey, 30 
With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 
Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! to thine own heroic throng. 
That stalks with Liberty along, 
And gives a new Key ^ to thy song 

Maryland! My Maryland! 4° 

Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain : 
"Sic semper" 'tis the proud refrain, 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise, in majesty again, 

Maryland! My Maryland! so 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, — 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 60 

Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
Maryland ! 

Better the fire upon thee roll. 

Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, 

Than crucifixion of the soul, 
Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 7o 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes — she burns ! she'll come ! 
she'll come ! 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Pointe Coupee, April 22, 186L 

^ Francis Scott Key, author of "The Star- 
Spangled Banner." 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



323 



THE BATTLE SUMMER 

Henry R. Tuckerman 

The summer wanes, — her languid sighs 
now yield 

To autumn's cheering air; 
The teeming orchard and the waving field 

Fruition's glory wear. 

More clear against the flushed horizon 
wall, 
Stand forth each rock and tree; 
More near the cricket's note, the plover's 
call, 
More crystalline the sea. 

The sunshine chastened, like a mother's 
gaze. 

The meadow's vagrant balm; _ lo 

The purple leaf and amber-tinted maize 

Reprove us while they calm; 

For on the landscape's brightly pensive 
face, 
War's angry shadows lie; 
His ruddy stains upon the woods we 
trace. 
And in the crimson sky. 

No more we bask in Earth's contented 
smile. 
But sternly muse apart; 
Vainly her charms the patriot's soul be- 
guile. 
Or woo the orphan's heart. ^ 

Yon keen-eyed stars with mute reproaches 
brand 
The lapse from faith and law, — 
No more harmonious emblems of a land 
Ensphered in love and awe. 

As cradled in the noontide's warm em- 
brace. 
And bathed in dew and rain. 
The herbage freshened, and in billowy 
grace 
Wide surged the ripening grain; 

And the wild rose and clover's honeyed 
cell 
Exhaled their peaceful breath, 3° 

On the soft air broke Treason's fiendish 
yell,— 
The harbinger of death! 



Nor to the camp alone his summons came. 

To blast the glowing day. 
But heavenward bore upon the wings of 
flame 

Our poet's mate away ; ^ 

And set his seal upon the statesman's lips 

On which a nation hung ; 2 
And rapt the noblest life in cold eclipse. 

By woman lived or sung. ^ 40 

How shrinks the heart from Nature's fes- 
tal noon. 
As shrink the withered leaves, — 
In the wan-light of Sorrow's harvest- 
moon 
To glean her blighted sheaves. 

Newport, R. I., Sept., 1861. 



DIXIE 

Albert Pike 

Southrons, hear your country call you ! 
Up, lest worse than death befall you ! 

To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
Lo ! all the beacon-fires are lighted, — 
Let all hearts be now united ! 
To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 
Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
For Dixie's land we take our stand, 

And live and die for Dixie ! 'o 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie! 

To arms ! To arms I 
And conquer peace for Dixie 

Hear the Northern thunders mutter! 
Northern flags in South winds flutter! 
Send them back your fierce defiance ! 
Stamp upon the accursed alliance ! 

Fear no danger ! Shun no labor ! 
Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre I 20 

Shoulder pressing close to shoulder. 
Let the odds make each heart bolder ! 

How the South's great heart rejoices 
At your cannon's ringing voices ! 
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken, 
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken. 

Strong as lions, swift as eagles. 

Back to their kennels hunt these beagles 1 

Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! 

Let them hence each other plunder! 30 

* Mrs. Longfellow. 

* Cavour. 

* Mrs, Browning, 



324 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Swear upon your country's altar 
Never to submit or falter, 
Till the spoilers are defeated 
Till the Lord's work is completed ! 

If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
Victory soon shall bring them gladness, — 

To arms ! 
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow ; 
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 39 
To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie ! 

Advance to the flag of Dixie! 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
For Dixie's land we take our stand, 
And live or die for Dixie ! 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 

To arms ! To arms ! 
And conquer peace for Dixie ! 



THE SONG OF THE EXILE 

(Dixie) 

Oh ! here I am in the land of cotton. 
The flag once honored is now forgotten ; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
But here I stand for Dixie 'dear. 
To fight for freedom, without fear ; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
For Dixie's land I'll take my stand. 
To live or die for Dixie's land. 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 

Oh ! have you heard the latest news, ^° 
Of Lincoln and his kangaroos; 

Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
His minions they would now oppress us, 
With war and bloodshed they'd distress 
us ! 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 

Abe Lincoln tore through Baltimore, 
In a baggage-car, with fastened door; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
And left his wife, alas! alack! 
To perish on the railroad track ! 20 

Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 



Abe Lincoln is the President, 
He '11 wish his days in Springfield spent; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
We I'l show him that old Scott 's a fool, 
We '11 ne'er submit to Yankee rule ! 

Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 



At first our States were only seven, 
But now we number stars eleven; 

Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 30 

Brave old Missouri shall be ours, 
Despite old Lincoln's Northern powers ! 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 



We have no ships, we have no navies. 
But mighty faith in great Jeff. Davis ; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
Due honor, too, we will award 
To gallant Bragg and Beauregard. 

Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 



Abe's proclamation in a twinkle, 40 

Stirred up the blood of Rip Van Winkle ; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
Jeff. Davis's answer was short and curt : 
"Fort Sumter's taken, and 'nobody's 
hurt!' " 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 



We hear the words of this same ditty. 
To the right and left of the Mississippi; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
In the land of flowers, hot and sandy, 
From Delaware Bay to the Rio Grande ! 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 51 



The ladies cheer with heart and hand. 
The men who fight for Dixie's land; 
Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 
The "Stars and Bars" are waving o'er us, 
And Independence is before us! 

Fight away, fight away, fight away for 
Dixie's land. 

Martinsburg, Va. 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



325 



THE SOUTHERN CROSS 
St. George Tucker 

Oh, say, can you see through the gloom 

and the storm, 
More bright for the darkness, that pure 

constellation ? 
Like the symbol of love and redemption 

its form, 
As it points to the haven of hope for the 

nation. 
How radiant each star, as the beacon afar. 
Giving promise of peace or assurance of 

war! 
'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall 

ever remain, 
To light us to freedom and glory again ! 

How peaceful and blest was America's 

soil 
Till betra.yed by the guile of the Puritan 

demoii, ^° 

Which lurks under virtue and springs 

from its coil 
To fasten its fangs in the life blood of 

freemen. 
Then boldly appeal to each heart that can 

feel. 
And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's 

heel ! 
And the Cross of the South shall in tri- 
umph remain- 
To hght us to freedom and glory again ! 

'Tis the emblem of peace, 'tis the day-star 
of hope. 

Like the sacred Labariwi that guided the 
Roman ; 

From the shore of the Gulf to the Dela- 
ware's slope 

'Tis the trust of the free and the terror 
of foeman. 20 

Fling its folds to the air, while we loudly 
declare 

The rights we demand or the deeds that 
we dare ! 

While the Cross of the South shall in tri- 
umph remain 

To light us to freedom and glory again ! 

And if peace should be hopeless and jus- 
tice denied, 

And war's bloody vulture should flap its 
black pinions, 

Then gladly to arms ! while we hurl, in 
our pride, 

Defiance to tyrants and death to their min- 
ions. 



With our front to the field, swearing 
never to yield, 

Or return, like the Spartans, in death on 
our shield. 3° 

And the Cross of the South shall triumph- 
antly wave 

As the flag of the free, or the pall of the 
brave. 

1861. 

ON TO RICHMOND 

After Southey's "March to Moscozi/' 
John R. Thompson 

Major General Scott 

An order had got 
To push on the column to Richmond; 

For loudly went forth, 

From all parts of the North, 
The cry that an end of the war must be 

made 
In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade : 
Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay, 
The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for 
the fray; 

The chivalrous Grow, 10 

Declared they were slow, — 

And therefore the order 

To march from the border 
And make an excursion to Richmond. 

Major General Scott 
Most likely was not 
Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot ; 
In his private opinion 
The Ancient Dominion 
Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be 
shot, 20 

And the reason is easily noted; 
Though this part of the earth 
Had given him birth. 
And medals and swords, 
Inscribed in fine words, 
It never for Winfield had voted. 
Besides, you must know, that our First 

of Commanders 
Had sworn quite as hard as the Army in 

Flanders, 
With his finest of armies and proudest of 

navies, 
To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson 
Davis. 30 

Then, "Forward the column," he said to 
McDowell; 
And the Zouaves with a shout. 
Most fiercely cried out, 
"To Richmond or h-11 !" (I omit here the 
vowel), 



326 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And Winfield he ordered his carriage and 

four, 
A dashing turnout, to be brought to the 

door. 
For a pleasant excursion to Richmond. 

Major General Scott 
Had there on the spot 
A splendid array 4° 

To plunder and slay; 
In the camp he might boast 
Such a numerous host, 
As he never had yet 
In the battle-field set; 
Every class and condition of Northern 

society. 
Were in for the trip, a most varied va- 
riety : 
In the camp he might hear every lingo in 

vogue, 
"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish 
brogue." 
The buthiful boy so 

From the banks of the Shannon 
Was there to employ 
His excellent cannon; 
And besides the long files of dragoons 
and artillery. 
The Zouaves and Hussars, 
All the children of Mars — 
There were barbers and cooks, 
And writers of books, — 
The chef de cuisine with his French bill 

of fare, 
And the artists to dress the young offi- 
cers' hair. 60 
And the scribblers were ready at once to 
prepare 
An eloquent story 
Of conquest and glory; 
And servants with numberless baskets of 

Sillery, 
Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the 

train, 
At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the 

champagne" : 
While the fields were so green, and the 

sky was so blue, 
There was certainly nothing more pleas- 
ant to do, 
On this pleasant excursion to Rich- 
mond. 

In Congress the talk, as I said, was of 
action, 7° 

To crush out instanter the traitorous fac- 
tion. 
In the press, and the mess, 
They would hear nothing less 



Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme 

or of reason. 
And at once put an end to the insolent 
treason. 
There was Greeley, 
And Ely, 

The bloodthirsty Grow, 

And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman 

the beau). 

And that terrible Baker 80 

Who would seize on the South every acre. 

And Webb, who would drive us all into 

the Gulf, or 
Some nameless locality smelHng of sul- 
phur; 
And with all this bold crew, 
Nothing would do. 
While the fields were so green, and the 
sky was so blue, 
But to march on directly to Richmond. 

Then the gallant McDowell, 
Drove madly the rowel 
Of spur that had never been "won" by 
him, 90 

To the flank of his steed. 
To accomplish a deed. 
Such as never before had been done by 
him; 
And the battery called 'Sherman's 

Was wheeled into line, 
While the beer-drinking Germans 

From Neckar and Rhine, 
With minie and yager, 
Came on with a swagger, 
Full of fury and lager, 1°° 

(The day and the pageant were equally 

fine.) 
Oh ! the fields were so green, and the sky 

was so blue. 
Indeed, 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view. 
As the column pushed onward to Rich- 
mond. 

Ere the march was begun, 

In a spirit of fun. 

General Scott in a speech 

Said the army should teach 
The Southrons the lesson the law to obey. 
And just before dusk of the third or 
fourth day, "° 

Should joyfully march into Richmond. 

He spoke of their drill. 
And their courage and skill, 
And declared that the ladies of Richmond 

would rave 
O'er such matchless perfection, and grace- 
fully wave 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



327 



In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air 
At their morning parades on the Capitol 
Square. 



Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to 

cope, 
Abiit evasit, erupit — John Pope. 



But alack ! and alas ! 
Mark what soon came to pass, 
When this army, in spite of his flatteries, 
Amid war's loudest thunder, 121 

Must stupidly blunder 
Upon those accursed "masked batteries." 
Then Beauregard came. 
Like a tempest of flame. 
To consume them in wrath, 
In their perilous path; 
And Johnson bore down in a whirlwind, 
to sweep 
Their ranks from the field, 
Where their doom had been sealed, 130 
As the storm rushes over the face of the 

deep; 
While swift on the centre our President 
pressed. 
And the foe might descry, 
~ In the glance of his eye. 
The light that once blazed upon Diomed's 

crest. 
McDowell ! McDowell ! weep, weep for 

the day, 
When the Southrons you met in their bat- 
tle array; 
To your confident hosts with its bullets 

and steel, 
'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless 

Lochiel. 
Oh ! the generals were green, and old 
Scott is now blue, 140 

And a terrible business McDowell to you. 
Was that pleasant excursion to Rich- 
mond. 

Richmond Whig, 1861. 



A FAREWELL TO POPE 
John R. Thompson 

"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" 
in the line ! 

Let the standards all bow and the sabres 
incline — 

Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while 
the conqueror goes, 

Whose eyes have seen only "the backs 
of his foes" — 

Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind 
of cheers, 

His vanishing form from our gaze dis- 
appears ; 



He came out of the West, like the young 

Lochinvar, 
Compeller of fate and controller of war, 
Videre et vincere, simply to see, " 

And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson 

and Lee; 
And old Abe at the White House, like 

Kilmansegg pere. 
With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, 
"Seemed washing his hands with invis- 
ible soap," 
As with eager attention he listened to 
Pope. 

He came — and the poultry was swept by 
his sword, 

Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by 
the board; 

He saw, at a distance, the rebels appear, 

And "rode to the front," which was 
strangely to rear : 20 

He conquered — truth, decency, honor, full 
soon. 

Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon! 

And was fain from the scene of his tri- 
umphs to slope. 

Sure there never was fortunate hero like 
Pope. 

He has left us his shining example to 

note. 
And Stuart has captured his uniform 

coat; 
But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we 

recall, 
To tell on whose shoulders his mantle 

should fall; 
While many may claim to deserve it, at 

least. 
From Hunter, the Hound, down to But- 
ler the Beast, _ . . ^° 
None else, we can say, without risking 

the trope. 
But himself can be paralleled ever to 

Pope. 

Like his namesake the poet, of genius and 

fire. 
He gives new expression and force to the 

lyre; 
But in one little matter they differ, the 

two. 
And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true — 



328 



AMERICAN POETRY 



While his verses gave great Alexander 

his fame, 
'Tis our hero's r^-verses accomplish the 

same; 
And fate may decree that the end of a 

rope, 
Shall award yet his highest position to 

Pope. 40 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY 

John W. Palmer 

Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails, 

Stir up the camp-fire bright; 
No growling if the canteen fails. 

We'll make a roaring night. 
Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 
To swell the Brigade's rousing song 
Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

We see him now — the queer slouched hat 
Cocked o'er his eye askew ; i" 

The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat. 
So calm, so blunt, so true. 

The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; 

Says he, "That's Banks — he's fond of 
shell; 

Lord save his soul! we'll give him — " 
well ! 
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off ! 

Old Massa's goin' to pray. 

Strangle the fool that dares to scoif ! 

Attention ! it's his way. ^ 

Appealing from his native sod. 
In forma pauperis to God: 
"Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy 
rod! 

Amen !" That's "Stonewall's way." 

He's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 

Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the ford, cut off ; we'll win 

His way out, ball and blade ! 
What matter if our shoes are worn? 
What matter if our feet are torn? 30 

"Quick step ! we're with him before 
morn !" 

That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
Of morning, and, by George! 

Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, 
Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 



Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before; 
"Bay'nets and grape !" hear Stonewall 

roar; 
"Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby's score !" 
In "Stonewall Jackson's way." 40 

Ah ! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn 
For news of Stonewall's band ! 

Ah ! Widow, read, with eyes that burn. 
That ring upon thy hand. 

Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on; 

Thy life shall not be all forlorn; 

The foe had better ne'er been born 
That gets in "Stonewall's way." 

1863? 



ORIGINAL VERSION OF THE 
JOHN BROWN SONG 

Attributed to H. H. Brownell, of 
Hartford 

Old John Brown lies a-mouldering in the 

grave. 
Old John Brown lies slumbering in the 

grave — 
But John Brown's soul is marching with 
the brave. 
His soul is marching on. 
Glory, Glory hallelujah, 
Glory, Glory hallelujah. 
Glory, Glory hallelujah, 
His soul goes marching on. 

He has gone to be a soldier in the Army 

of the Lord, 
He is sworn as a private in the ranks of 

the Lord — 1° 

He shall stand at Armageddon with his 

brave old sword, 
When Heaven is marching on. 

He shall file in front when the lines of 

battle form. 
He shall face to front when the squares 

of battle form, 
•With the column, and charge in the storm. 
When men are marching on. 

Ah, foul tyrants ! do you hear him when 

he comes? 
Ah, black traitors, do ye know him as he 

comes? 
In thunder of the cannon and roll of the 

drums, 
As we go marching on. 2° 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



329 



Men may die and moulder in the dust — 
Men may die and arise again from dust, 
Shoulder to shoulder, in the ranks of the 
Just, 
When God is marching on. 



THE PRESIDENT'S PROCLAMA- 
TION 

John Brown Song 

Edna Dean Proctor 

John Brown died on a scaffold for the 

slave ; 
Dark was the hour when we dug his hal- 
lowed grave; 
Now God avenges the life he gladly gave. 

Freedom reigns to-day ! 

Glory, glory hallelujah ! 

Glory, glory hallelujah! 

Glory, glory hallelujah! 

Freedom reigns to-day ! 

John Brown sowed and his harvesters are 
we; 

Honor to him who has . made the bond- 
men free ! i° 

Loved evermore shall our noble Ruler 
be— 
Freedom reigns to-day ! 

John Brown's body lies mouldering in the 

grave ! 
Bright, o'er the sod, let the starry banner 

wave; 
Lo ! for the millions he perilled all to 

save — 
Freedom reigns to-day ! 

John Brown lives — we are gaining on our 
foes — 

Right shall be victor whatever may op- 
pose — 

Fresh, through the darkness, the wind of 
morning blows — 
Freedom reigns to-day! 20 

John Brown's soul through the world is 

marching on; 
Hail to the hour when oppression shall 

be gone ! 
All men sing, in the better age's dawn, 
Freedom reigns to-day ! 



John Brown dwells where the battle- 
strife is o'er; 
Hate cannot harm him nor sorrow stir 

him more ; 
Earth will remember the crown of thorns 
.he wore— 
Freedom reigns to-day ! 

John Brown's body lies mouldering in the 

grave ; 
John Brown lives in the triumphs of the 
brave ; 3° 

John Brown's soul not a higher joy can 
crave — 
Freedom reigns to-day. 
Glory, glory hallelujah! 
Glory, glory hallelujah! 
Glory, glory hallelujah! 
Freedom reigns to-day ! 

GLORY HALLELUJAH! OR JOHN 
BROWN'S BODY 

Charles Sprague Hall 

John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in 

the grave, 
John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in 

the grave, 
John Brown's body lies a-mould'ring in 

the grave. 
His soul is marching on ! 

Chorus 

Glory! Glory Hallelujah! 
Glory! Glory Hallelujah! 
Glory! Glory Hallelujah! 
His soul is marching on. 

He's gone to be a soldier in the army of 
the Lord! 
His soul is marching on. ^ 

John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon 
his back. 
His soul is marching on. 

His pet lambs will meet him on the way, 
And they'll go marching on. 

They'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple 
tree, 
As they go marching on. 

Now for the Union let's give three rous- 
ing cheers. 
As we go marching on. 

Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah ! 



330 



AMERICAN POETRY 



GLORY HALLELUJAH, OR NEW 
JOHN BROWN SONG 

(Anon) 

John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in 

the grave, 
While weep the sons of bondage, whom 

he ventured all to save; 
But, tho' he lost his life in struggling for 

the slave. 
His soul is marching on. 

Cho. : Glory, Glory Hallelujah, etc. 

John Brown was a Hero, undaunted, true 

and brave, 
And Kansas knew his valor when he 

fought her rights to save; 
And now, though the grass grows green 

above his grave, 
His soul is marching on. 

He captured Harper's Ferry, with his 
nineteen men so true, i° 

And he frightened old Virginy, till she 
trembled through and through. 

They hung him for a traitor; themselves 
a traitor crew : 
But his soul is marching on. 

John Brown was John the Baptist of 
Christ we are to see, 

Christ who of the bondman shall the Lib- 
erator be; 

And soon, throughout the Sunny South, 
the slaves shall all be free: 
For his soul is marching on. 

The conflict that he heralded, he looks 

from Heaven to view. 
On the army of the Union with his Flag, 

red, white, and blue, 
And Heaven shall ring with anthems o'er 

the deed they mean to do; 20 

For his soul is marching on. 

Ye soldiers of Freedom, then strike, 

while strike you may, 
The death-blow of Oppression in a better 

time and way; 
For, the dawn of Old John Brown has 

brightened into day. 
And his soul is marching on. 



THE SWEET SOUTH 
Wm. Gilmore Sim MS 

the sweet South ! the sunny, sunny 

South ! 
Land of true feeling, land forever 
mine ! 

1 drink the kisses of her rosy mouth. 
And my heart swells as with a draught 

of wine; 
She brings me blessings of maternal love; 
I have her smile which hallows all my 
toil; 
Her voice persuades, her generous smiles 
approve. 
She sings me from the sky and from 
the soil ! 
O, by her lonely pines that wave and 
sigh ! 
O, by her myriad flowers, that bloom 
and fade, 1° 

By all the thousand beauties of her sky, 
And the sweet solace of her forest 
shade. 
She's mine — she's ever mine — 
Nor will I aught resign 
Of what she gives me, mortal or divine; 
Will sooner part 
With life, hope, heart, — 
Will die— before I fly! 

O, love is hers, — such as ever glows 
In souls where leap affection's living 
tide; 20 

She is all fondness to her friends ; to 
foes 
She glows a thing of passion, strength, 
and pride; 
She feels no tremors when the danger's 
high, 
But the fight over and the victory won, 
How with strange fondness, turns her 
loving eye 
In tearful welcome on each gallant son ! 
O ! by her virtues of the cherished 
past, — 
By all her hopes of what the future 
brings, — 
I glory that my lot with her is cast. 
And my soul flushes and exulting 
sings ; 30 

She's mine — she's ever mine — 
For her will I resign 
All precious things — all placed upon her 
shrine; 
Will freely part 
With life, hope, heart — 
Will die — do aught but fly ! 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



331 



GOD SAVE THE NATION! 
(A War Hymn) 
Theodore Tilton 

Thou who ordainest, for the land's salva- 
tion, 

Famine, and fire, and sword, and lamen- 
tation. 

Now unto Thee we lift our suppHcation — 
God save the Nation ! 



By the great sign, foretold, of Thy Ap- 
pearing, 

Coming in clouds, while mortal men stand 
fearing, 

Show us, amid this smoke of battle, clear- 
ing, 

Thy chariot nearing! 

By the brave blood that floweth like a 
river. 

Hurl Thou a thunderbolt from out Thy 
quiver ! "> 

Break Thou the strong gates ! Every fet- 
ter shiver ! 

Smite and dehver! 



Slay Thou our foes, or turn them to de- 
rision ! — 
Then, in the blood-red Valley of Decision, 
Make the land green with Peace, as in a 
vision 

Of fields Elysian! 

1862. 



A BATTLE HYMN 

George H. Boker 

God, to Thee we humbly bow. 
With hand unarmed and naked brow; 
Musket, lance, and sheathed sword 
At Thy feet we lay, O Lord ! 
Gone is all the soldier's boast 
In the valor of the host: 
Kneeling here, we do our most. 



Of ourselves we nothing know: 
Thou, and Thou alone canst show. 
By the favor of Thy hand, 
Who has drawn the guilty brand. 
H our foemen have the right. 
Show Thy judgment in our sight 
Through the fortunes of the fight! 



If our cause be pure and just, 
Nerve our courage with Thy trust : 
Scatter, in Thy bitter wrath. 
All who cross the nation's path : 
May the baffled traitors fly. 
As the vapors from the sky 
When Thy raging winds are high ! 

God of mercy, some must fall 
In Thy holy cause. Not all 
Hope to sing the victor's lay. 
When the sword is laid away. 
Brief will be the prayers then said; 
Falling at Thy altars dead, 
Take the sacrifice, instead. 

Now, O God ! once more we rise. 
Marching on beneath Thy eyes; 
And we draw the sacred" sword 
In Thy name and at Thy word. 
May our spirits clearly see 
Thee, through all that is to be, 
In defeat or victory. 



30 



1862. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 

(September 1, 1862) 

George H. Boker 

Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight. 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
What to him are all our wars. 
What but death-bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 



332 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Leave him to God's watching eye; 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 
God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 3o 

What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low! 

1862. 



Or from foul treason's savage grasp to 
wrench the murderous blade, 

And in the face of foreign foes its frag- 
ments to parade. 

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true 
have gone before : 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three 
hundred thousand more ! 

July 2, 1862. 



THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND 
MORE 

We are coming. Father Abraham, three 
hundred thousand more, 

From Mississippi's winding stream and 
from New England's shore ; 

We leave our ploughs and workshops, our 
wives and children dear. 

With hearts too full for utterance, with 
but a silent tear ; 

We dare not look behind us, but stead- 
fastly before : 

We are coming. Father Abraham, three 
hundred thousand more ! 

If you look across the hill-tops that meet 

the northern sky, 
Long moving lines of rising dust your 

vision may descry; 
And now the wind, an instant, tears the 

cloudy veil aside. 
And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory 

and in pride, i° 

And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and 

bands brave music pour : 
We are coming. Father Abraham, three 

hundred thousand more ! 



BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 
Julia Ward Howe 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 

coming of the Lord: 
He is trampling out the vintage where 

the grapes of wrath are stored; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of 

his terrible swift sword: 
His truth is marching on. 



I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a 

hundred circling camps ; 
They have builded Him an altar in the 

evening dews and damps ; 
I can read his righteous sentence by the 

dim and flaring lamps. 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burn- 
ished rows of steel : 

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with 
you my grace shall deal; ^^^ 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
serpent with his heel. 
Since God is marching on." 



If you look all up our valleys where the 

growing harvests shine, 
You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast 

forming into line ; 
And children from their mother's knees 

are pulling at the weeds. 
And learning how to reap and sow against 

their country's needs ; 
And a farewell group stands weeping at 

every cottage door : 
We are coming. Father Abraham, three 

hundred thousand more ! 

You have called us, and we're coming, 

by Richmond's bloody tide 
To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our 

brothers' bones beside, 20 



He has sounded forth the trumpet that 

shall never call retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before 

His judgment-seat: 
Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! 

be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 



In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 
born across the sea. 
With a glory in His bosom that trans- 
figures you and me : 
As He died to make men holy, let us die 
to make them free. 
While God is marching on. 20 

1863? 



1 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



333 



ODE: OUR CITY BY THE SEA 
Wm. Gilmore Simms 



A vast and dread array 
Glooming black upon the day, 
Hell's passions all in play, 
With Hell's art! 



Our city by the sea, 
As the "rebel city" known, 
' With a soul and spirit free 

As the waves that make her zone. 
Stands in wait for the fate 
From the angry arm of hate; 
But she nothing fears the terror of his 
blow; 
She hath garrisoned her walls. 
And for every son that falls 
She will spread a thousand palls ^° 

For the foe! 



But they trouble not the souls, 

Of our Carolina host, 
And the drum of battle rolls. 

While each hero seeks his post; 
Firm, though few, sworn to do. 
Their old city full in view, 3° 

The brave city of their sires and their 
dead; 
There each freeman had his brood, 
All the dear ones of his blood. 
And he knew they watching stood. 

In their dread ! 



Old Moultrie at her gate 
Clad in arms and ancient fame, 

Grimly watching stands elate 
To deliver bolt and flame! 

Brave the band at command. 

To illumine sea and land 
With a glory that shall honor days of 
yore ; 

And, as racers for their goals, 

A thousand fiery souls 20 

While the drum of battle rolls, 
Line the shore! 



Lo ! rising at his side, 

As if emulous to share 
His old historic pride 

The vast form of Sumter there! 
Girt by waves which he braves 
Though the equinoctial raves, 
As the mountain braves the lightning on 
his steep; 
And like tigers crouching round, 3° 
Are the tribute forts that bound 
All the consecrated ground 
By the Deep ! 



It was calm, the April noon. 

When, in iron-castled towers, 
Our haughty foe came on, 

With his aggregated powers ; 
All his might against the right, 
Now embattled for the fight, 
With Hell's hate and venom working in 
his heart; 40 



VI 

To the bare embattled height, 
Then our gallant colonel sprung, 

"Bid them welcome to the fight," 
Were the accents of his tongue; 

"Music, band ! Pour out grand — 60 

The free song of Dixie Land ! 
Let it tell them we are joyful that they 
come! 

Bid them welcome, drum and flute. 

Nor be your cannon mute, 

Give them chivalrous salute — 
To their doom !" 

VII 

Out spoke an eager gun. 

From the walls of Moultrie then; 
And through clouds of sulphurous dun, 

Rose a shout of thousand men, 7° 
As the shot hissing hot, 
Goes in lightning to the spot — 
Goes crashing wild through timber and 
through mail; 
Then roared the storm from all 
Moultrie's ports and Sumter's wall — 
Bursting bomb and driving ball — 

Hell in hail. 

VIII 

Full a hundred cannon roared 
The dread welcome to the foe. 

And his felon spirit cowered 80 

As he crouched beneath the blow ! 

As each side opened wide 

To the iron and the tide. 
He lost his faith in armor and in art; 

And with the loss of faith 

Came the dread of wounds and scath — 

And the felon fear of death 
Wrung his heart ! 



334 



AMERICAN POETRY 



IX 

Quenched then his foul desires ; 

In mortal pain and fear, 9° 

How feeble grew his fires, 

How stayed his fell career ! 
How each keel, made to reel 
'Neath our thunder, seems to kneel 
Their turrets staggering wildly to and 
fro, blind and lame, 
Iron sides and iron roof. 
Held no longer bullet proof, 
Steal away, shrink aloof, 

In their shame ! 



But our lightnings follow fast, ^°° 

With a vengeance sharp and hot; 
Our bolts are on the blast. 

And they rive with shell and shot ! 
Huge the form which they warm 
With the hot breath of the storm; 
Dread the crash which follows as each 
Titan mass is struck; 
They shiver as they fly. 
While their leader drifting nigh, 
Sinks, choking with the cry — 
"Keokuk!" "° 

XI 

To the brave old city, joy! 
For that the hostile race, 
Commissioned to destroy, 

Hath fled in sore disgrace ! 
That our sons, at their guns 
Have beat back the modern Huns — 
Have maintained their household fanes 
and their fires. 
And free from taint and scath. 
Have kept the fame and faith, 
(And will keep through blood and 
death) i^o 

Of their sires! 



XII 

To the Lord of Hosts the glory 

For His the arm and might 
That have writ for us the story 

And have borne us through the fight! 
His our shield in that field — 
Voice that bade us never yield; 
Oh ! had He not been with us through 
the terrors of that day ! 
His strength has made us strong. 
Cheered the right and crushed the 
wrong, 130 

To His temple let us throng — 
Praise and pray. 

1863? 



WHO'S READY? 
Edna Dean Proctor 

God help us! Who's ready? There's 
danger before! 

Who's armed and who's mounted? The 
foe's at the door ! 

The smoke of his cannon hangs black 
o'er the plain ; 

His shouts ring exultant while counting 
our slain; 

And Northward and Northward he press- 
es his line, — 

Who's ready ? O forward ! — for yours 
and for mine ! 

No halting, no discord, the moments are 

Fates ; 
To shame or to glory they open the 

gates ! 
There's all we hold dearest to lose or to 

win; 
The web of the future to-day we must 

spin ; 10 

And bid the hours follow with knell or 

with chime, — 
Who's ready? O forward! — while yet 

there is time! 

Lead armies or councils — be soldiers 

afield, — 
Alike, so your valor is Liberty's shield ! 
Alike, so you strike when the bugle-notes 

call, 
For Country, for Fireside, for Freedom 

to All! 
The blows of the boldest will carry the 

day, — 
Who's ready? O forward! — there's death 

in delay ! 

Earth's noblest are praying, at home and 

o'er sea, — 
"God keep the great nation united and 

free !" 20 

Her tyrants watch, eager to Ifeap at our 

life, 
If once we should falter or faint in the 

strife; 
Our trust is unshaken, though legions 

assail, — 
Who's ready? O forward! — and Right 

shall prevail ! 

Who's ready? "All ready!" undaunted 

we cry; 
"For Country, for Freedom, we'll fight 

till we die! 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



335 



No traitor, at midnight, shall pierce us 

in rest; 
No alien, at noonday, shall stab us 

abreast ; 
The God of our Fathers is guiding us 

still,— 
All forward ! we're ready, and conquer 

we will!" 30 



CLARIBEL'S PRAYER 

The day, with cold, gray feet, clung shiv- 
ering to the hills, 

While o'er the valley, still night's rain- 
fringed curtains fell; 
But waking blue eyes smiled. " 'Tis ever 
as God wills; 

He knoweth best, and be it rain or 
shine, 'tis well, 

Praise God !" cried always little Clari- 
bel. 



When gray and dreary day shook hands 

with grayer night. 
The heavy air was filled with clangor 

of a bell. 
"Oh, shout !" the herald cried, his worn 

eyes brimmed with light : 
" 'Tis victory ! Oh ! what glorious news 

to tell !" 
"Praise God ! He heard my prayer," 

cried Claribel. 



"But, pray you, soldier, was my brother 

in the fight. 
And in the fiery rain? Oh! fought he 

brave and well?" 
"Dear child," the herald cried, "there was 

no braver sight 
Than his young form, so grand 'mid 

shot and shell." 
"Praise God!" cried trembling little 

Claribel. 30 



Then sank she on her knees. With eager, 
Hfted hands. 

Her rosy lips made haste some dear 
request to tell : 
"O Father! smile, and save this fairest of 
all lands, 

And make her free, whatever hearts 
rebel. 

Amen ! Praise God !" cried little Clar- 
ibel. 10 



"And rides he now with victor's plumes 
of red. 

While trumpers' golden throats his 
coming steps foretell?" 
The herald dropped a tear: "Dear child," 
he softly said, 

"Thy brother evermore with conquer- 
ors shall dwell." 

"Praise God ! He heard my prayer," 
cried Claribel. 



"And, Father," still arose another pleading 
prayer, 

"Oh ! save my brother, in the rain of 
shot and shell; 
Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid 
streaming hair, 

Dash light from those sweet eyes I love 
so well. 

Amen ! Praise God !" wept little Clari- 
bel. 



"With victors wearing crowns and bear- 
ing palms," he said ; 

And snow of sudden fear upon the 
rose-lips fell, 
"Oh ! sweetest herald, say my brother 
lives !" she pled. 

"Dear child, he walks with angels who 
in strength excel. 

Praise God, Who gave this glory, Clar- 
ibel." 40 



"But, Father, grant that when the glori- 
ous fight is done, 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of 
Freedom swell. 

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath 
the sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so 
well. 

Amen ! Praise God !" cried little Clari- 
bel. 20 



The cold, gray day died sobbing on the 
weary hills, 
While bitter mourning on the night- 
wind rose and fell. 

"Oh, child," the herald wept, "'tis as the 
dear Lord wills, 
He knoweth best ; and be it life or 
death, 'tis well." 

"Amen! Praise God," sobbed little 
Claribel. 



336 



AMERICAN POETRY 



LITTLE GIFFEN 

F. O. TiCKNOR 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
Out of the hospital walls as dire; 
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen:) 
Spectre, such as you seldom see — 
Little Giff en of Tennessee ! 



"Take him — and welcome !" the surgeons 

said; 
"Much your Doctor can help the dead !" 
And so we took him and brought him 

where 
The balm was sweet on the summer air; 
And we laid him down on the wholesome 

bed " 

Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 



Weary War with the bated breath. 
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death. 
Months of torture, how many such ! 
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ! 
Still a glint in the steel blue eye 
Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die. 



And didn't ! nay, more ! in death's despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write! ^° 
"Dear mother" at first, of course; and 

then, 
"Dear Captain" — inquiring about the 

"men." 
Captain's answer — "Of eighty and five, 
Giffen and I are left alive !" 



"Johnston's pressed at the front, they 

say!" 
Little Giffen was up and away. 
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye. 
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye; 
"I'll write, if spared;" there was news of 

a fight. 
But none of Giffen ! he did not write ! 3° 



I sometimes fancy that when I'm king. 
And my gallant courtiers form a ring. 
All so thoughtless of power and pelf, 
\nd each so loyal to all but self, 

d give the best on his bended knee, 
/ea, barter the whole for the Loyalty 
Of little Giffen of Tennessee! 

1863? 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE 

October 19, 1864 

T. B. Read 

Up from the South, at break of day. 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay. 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's 

door. 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and 

roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled ^° 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that fiery 
fray. 
With Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good, broad highway leading down : 
And there, through the flush of the morn- 
ing light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 
As if he knew the terrible need, ^o 

He stretched away with his utmost speed. 
Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay. 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, 

thundering south 
The dust like smoke from the cannon's 

mouth. 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster 

and faster. 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of dis- 
aster. 
The heart of the steed and the heart of 

the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting 

their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field 

calls ; 30 

Every nerve of the charger was strained 

to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. 
And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean flying before the wind; 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



ZZ7 



And the steed like a bark fed with fur- 
nace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire; 

But, lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire; 

•He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring 
fray, 40 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were the 
groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating 
troops ; 

What was done? what to do? a glance 
told him both. 

Then striking his spurs with a terrible 
oath. 

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm 
of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat checked its 
course there, because 

The sight of the master compelled it to 
pause. 

With foam and with dust the black char- 
ger was gray ; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nos- 
tril's play, so 

He seemed to the whole great army to 
say : 

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the 
day." 

Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man 
And when their statues are placed on high 
Under the dome of the Union sky, 
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 
There, with the glorious general's name. 
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright : 
"Here is the steed that saved the day 61 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester — twenty miles away !" 

1864 ?65? 



MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA 
Henry Clay Work 

Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing 
another song — 

Sing it with the spirit that will start the 
world along — 

Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thou- 
sand strong. 
While we are marching through Geor- 
gia. 



Hurrah ! we bring the 
flag that 



the 



"Hurrah ! 

jubilee! 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

makes you free !" 
So we sang the chorus from Atlanta 

to the sea. 
While we were marching through 

Georgia. 

How the darkies shouted when they heard 
the joyful sound! 

How the turkeys gobbled which our com- 
missary found ! 10 

How the sweet potatoes even started from 
the ground. 
While we were marching through Geor- 
gia. 

Yes, and there was Union men who wept 
with joyful tears, 

When they saw the honored flag they had 
not seen for years ; 

Hardly could they be restrained from 
breaking forth in cheers. 
While we were marching through Geor- 
gia. 

"Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will 
never reach the coast !" 

So the saucy rebels said — and 'twas a 
handsome boast. 

Had they not forgot, alas ! to reckon on 
a host. 
While we were marching through Geor- 
gia. 20 

So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom 

and her train. 
Sixty miles in latitude — three hundred to 

the main ; 
Treason fled before us, for resistance was 
in vain, 
While we were marching through Geor- 
gia. 

1864? 

WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCH- 
ING HOME 

Patrick S. Gilmore 

When Johnny comes marching home 
again, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
We'll give him a hearty welcome then. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
The men will cheer, the boys will shout, 
The ladies, they will all turn out. 

And we'll all feel gay. 
When Johnny comes marching home. 



338 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The old church bell will peal with joy, 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! i° 

To welcome home our darling boy, 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

The village lads and lasses say. 

With roses they will strew the way; 
And we'll all feel gay, 

When Johnny co/nes marching home. 

Get ready for the jubilee, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
We'll give the hero three times three, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 20 

The laurel-wreath is ready now 
To place upon his loyal brow. 

And we'll all feel gay. 
When Johnny comes marching home. 

Let love and friendship on that day. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
Their choicest treasures then display, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
And let each one perform some part. 
To fill with joy the warrior's heart; 3" 

And we'll all feel gay. 
When Johnny comes marching home. 

1865. 

THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE 
Rev. Abram J. Ryan 

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright. 

Flashed the sword of Lee ! 
Far in the front of the deadly fight, 
High o'er the brave in the cause of right. 
Its stainless sheen like a beacon light. 

Led us to victory. 

Out of its scabbard, where full long 

It slumbered peacefully — 
Roused from its rest by the battle song. 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 10 
Guarding the right, and avenging the 
wrong. 

Gleamed the sword of Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard, high in air. 

Beneath Virginia's sky— 
And they who saw it gleaming there, 
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
That where that sword led, they would 
dare 

To follow or to die. 

Out of its scabbard! Never hand 

Waved sword from stain as free, ^o 
Nor purer sword led braver band. 
Nor braver bled for a brighter land. 
Nor brighter land had a cause as grand. 
Nor cause, a chief like Lee! 



Forth from its scabbard ! how we prayed 

That sword might victor be ! 
And when our triumph was delayed. 
And many a heart grew sore afraid, 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 

Of noble Robert Lee! 3° 

Forth from its scabbard ! all in vain ! 

Forth flashed the sword of Lee! 
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again. 
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, 
Defeated, yet without a stain. 

Proudly and peacefully. 

Richmond Enquirer, 1865? 

IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE 
DREAMING 

"Much Yet Remains Unsung." 

Dan R. Lucas. 

Fair were our visions ! Oh, they were as 

grand 
As ever floated out of Faerie land; — 
Children were we in single faith. 
But God, like children, whom nor death. 
Nor threat, nor danger drove from 
Honor's path. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Proud were our men as pride of birth 

could render, 
As violets, our women pure and tender; 
And when they spoke their voice did 

thrill. 
Until at eve, the whip-poor-will, 1° 

At morn the mocking-birds were mute and 
still. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

And we had graves that covered more of 

glory, 
Than ever taxed tradition's ancient story; 
And in our dream we wove the thread 
Of principles, for which had bled 
And suffered long, our own immortal 
dead. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Though in our land we had both bond 

and free. 
Both were content; and so God let them 
be;— 20 

'Till envy coveted our land. 
And those fair fields our valor won : 
But little recked we, for we still slept on. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



339 



Our sleep grew troubled, and our dream 

grew wild, 
Red meteors flashed across our Heaven's 
field; 
Crimson the moon; between the Twins, 
Barbed arrows fly, and then begins 
Such strife as when disorder's Chaos 
reigns, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

30 

Down from her sun-lit heights smiled 

Liberty, 
And waved her cap in sign of Victory — 
The world approved, and everywhere, 
Except where growled the Russian bear, 
The good, the brave, the just gave us 
their prayer. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

We fancied that a Government was ours — 
We challenged place among the world's 
great powers ; 
We talked in sleep of Rank, Commis- 
sion, 
Until so life-like grew our vision, 40 
That we who dared to doubt, but met 
derision. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

We looked on high : a banner there was 

seen, 
Whose field was blanched and spotless 
in its sheen — 
Chivalry's cross its Union bears, 
And vet'rans swearing by the stars 
Vowed they would bear it through a 
hundred wars, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

A hero came amongst us while we slept, 
At first he lowly knelt — then rose and 
wept ; so 

Then gathering up a thousand spears, 
He swept across the field of Mars; 
Then bowed farewell, and walked beyond 
the stars — 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

We looked again; another figure still. 
Gave hope, and nerved each individual 
will — 
Full of grandeur, clothed with power. 
Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour 
With stern, majestic sway, of strength, a 
tower. 
In the land where we were dreaming." 
As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder 
God, 61 



Gazed eastward from the Forum where 
he stood, 
Rome felt herself secure and free, 
So "Richmond's safe," we said, while 
we 
Beheld a bronzed Hero — God-like Lee, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

As wakes the soldier when the alarum 

calls — 

As wakes the mother when her infant 

falls— 

As starts the traveller when around 69 

His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound — 

So woke our nation with a single bound. 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

Woe ! woe is me ! the startled mother 

cried — 
While we have slept, our noble sons have 
died, 
Woe ! woe is me ! how strange and sad. 
That all our glorious vision's fled, 
And left us nothing real but the dead. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

And are they really dead, our martyred 

slain ? 

No ! dreamers ! morn shall bid them rise 

again, 8° 

From every vale — from every height. 

On which they seemed to die for right — 

Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight. 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

Wake ! dreamers, wake ! none but the 

sleeping fail; 
Our cause being just, must in the end 
prevail ; 
Once, this Thyestean banquet o'er 
Frown strong, the few who- bide the 
hour. 
Shall rise and hurl the drunken guests 
from power, 89 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

New York News (?), , 1865? 



THE CLOSING SCENE 

Thomas Buchanan Read 

Within the sober realms of leafless trees, 

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of 

ease 

When all the fields are lying brown and 

bare. 



340 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The gray barns looking from their hazy 

hills, 

O'er the dun waters widening in the 

vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. 

Of the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds 

subdued. 

The hills seemed further and the stream 

sang low 10 

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 

His winter log, with many a muffled 

blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed 
with gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial 
hue. 
Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of 
old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
blue. 

On sombre wings the vulture tried his 
flight; 
The dove scarce heard his sighing 
mate's complaint; 
And, like a star slowly drowning in the 
light, 
The village church vane seemed to pale 
and faint. 20 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew — 
Crew thrice — and all was stiller than 
before; 
Silent, till some replying warbler blew 
His altern horn, and then was heard 
no more. 

Where erst the jay within the tall elm's 
crest, 

Made garrulous trouble round her un- 
fledged young. 

And where the oriole hung her swaying 
nest, 

By every light wind like a censer swung. 

Where sang the noisy martins of the 
eaves, 29 

The busy swallows circling ever near — 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes. 

An. early harvest, and a plenteous year. 

Where every bird that watched the vernal 
feast. 
Shook the sweet slumber from his 
wings at morn; 
To warn the reaper of the rosy east: 
All now was sunless, empty and forlorn. 



Alone, from out the stubble piped the 

quail ; 

And croaked the crow through all the 

dreary gloom 

Alone, the pheasant drumming in the vale, 

Made echo in the distant cottage loom. 

40 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the 
bowers ; 
The spiders moved their thin shrouds 
night by night. 
The thistle - down, the only ghost of 
flowers, 
Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out 
of sight. 

Amid all this, in this most dreary aid. 
And where the woodbine shed upon the 
porch 
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood 
there. 
Firing the floor with its inverted torch — 

Amid all this — the centre of the scene. 
The white haired matron, with monot- 
onous tread, so 
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joy- 
less mien 
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying 
thread. 

She had known Sorrow — He had walked 

with her. 

Oft supped, and broke the ashen crust. 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the 

stir 

Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with 
summer bloom. 
Her country summoned, and she gave 
her all; 
And twice, war bowed to her his sable 
plume — 
Regave the sword to rust upon the 
wall. 60 

Regave the sword, but not the hand that 
drew 

And struck for liberty the dying blow; 
Nor him, who to his sire and country true. 

Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the drooping wheel 
went on. 
Like a low murmur of a hive at noon; 
Long, but not loud — the memory of the 
gone 
Breathed through her lips a sad and 
tremulous tone. 



POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR 



341 



At last the thread was snapped, her head 
was bowed; 
Life dropped the distaff through her 
hands serene, 7o 

And loving neighbors smoothed her care- 
ful shroud; 
While death and winter closed the 
autumn scene. 

1865. 

AFTER ALL 

William Winter 

The apples are ripe in the orchard, 
The work of the reaper is done, 

And the golden woodlands redden 
In the blood of the dying sun. 

At the cottage-door the grandsire 

Sits pale in his easy-chair, 
While the gentle wind of twilight 

Plays with his silver hair. 

A woman is kneeling beside him; 

A fair young head is pressed, i" 

In the first wild passion of sorrow, 

Against his aged breast. 



And far from over the distance 

The faltering echoes come 
Of the flying blast of trumpet. 

And the rattling roll of drum. 

And the grandsire speaks in a whisper : 

"The end no man can see ; 
But we give him to his country, 

And we give our prayers to Thee." -" 

The violets star the meadows. 
The rose-buds fringe the door, 

And over the grassy orchard 
The pink-white blossoms pour. 

But the grandsire's chair is empty, 
The cottage is dark and still; 

There's a nameless grave in the battle- 
field. 
And a new one under the hill. 

And a pallid, tearless woman 

By the cold hearth sits alone, 30 

And the old clock in the corner 

Ticks on with a steady drone. 

1865. 



HENRY TIMROD 

(1828-1867) 



{The text is taken from the edition of 1873, ed- 
ited by Paul Hamilton Hayne.) 

SONNET 

At last, beloved Nature ! I have met 
Thee face to face upon thy breezy hills, 
And boldly, where thy inmost bowers are 

set. 
Gazed on thee naked in thy. mountain rills. 
When first I felt thy breath upon my 

brow, 
Tears of strange ecstasy gushed out like 

rain, 
And with a longing, passionate as vain, 
I strove to clasp thee. But, I know not 

how, 
Always before me didst thou seem to 

glide; 
And often from one sunny mountain- 
side, 10 
Upon the next bright peak I saw thee 

kneel, 
And heard thy voice upon the billowy 

blast; 
But, climbing, only reached that shrine 

to feel 
The shadow of a Presence which had 

passed. 

Russell's Magazine, Feb., 1859. 

From A VISION OF POESY i 

XXXII 

"Sometimes — could it be fancy? — I have 
felt 
The presence of a spirit who might 
speak ; 
As down in lowly reverence I knelt, 
Its very breath hath kissed my burn- 
ing cheek ; 
But I in vain- have hushed my own to hear 
A wing or whisper stir the silent air !" 

^ The most elaborate performance in the edi- 
tion of 1860, indeed the longest poem Timrod 
ever wrote, is called "A Vision of Poesy." Its 
purpose is to show, in the subtle development of 
a. highly gifted imaginative nature, the true laws 
which underlie and determine the noblest uses 
of the poetical faculty. (P. H. Hayne's Intro- 
duction to the edition of 1873.) 



XXXIII 

Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, 

hark ! 
A distant murmur, like a voice of floods ; 
And onward sweeping slowly through the 

dark. 
Bursts like a call the night-wind from 

the woods ! ^° 

Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose 

their dreams. 
And through the waving roof a fresher 

moonlight streams. 

XXXIV 

"Alortal !" — the word crept slowly round 
the place 
As if that wind had breathed it ! From 
no star 

Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's 
face. 
Again a hushing calm ! while faint and 
far 

The breeze goes calling onward through 
the night. 

Dear God ! what vision chains that wide- 
strained sight? 

XXXV 

Over the grass and flowers, and up the 
■ slope 

Glides a white cloud of mist, self-rnoved 
and slow, 20 

That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope, 

Swayed like a flame of silver ; from be- 
low 

The breathless youth with beating heart 
beholds 

A mystic motion in its argent folds. 

XXXVI 

Yet his young soul is bold, and hope 
grows warm, 
As flashing through that cloud of 
shadowy crape. 
With sweep of robes, and then a gleam- 
ing arm, 
Slowly developing, at last took shape 
A face and form unutterably bright, 29 
That cast a golden glamour on the night. 



342 



HENRY TIMROD 



343 



XXXVII 

But for the glory round it it would sc-em 
Almost a mortal maiden; and the boy, 

Unto whom love was yet an innocent 
dream, 
Shivered and crimsoned with an un- 
known joy; 

As to the young Spring bounds the pas- 
sionate South, 

IJe could have clasped and kissed her 
mouth to mouth. 



XXXVIII 

Yet something checked, that was and was 

not dread. 
Till in a low sweet voice the maiden 

spake ; 
She was the Fairy of his dreams, she said, 
And loved him simply for his human 

sake ; 40 

And that in heaven, wherefrom she took 

her birth, 
They called her Poesy, the angel of the 

earth. 

XXXIX 

"And ever since that immemorial hour. 
When the glad morning-stars together 
sung. 
My task has been, beneath a mightier 
Power, 
To keep the world forever fresh and 
young ; 
I give it not its fruitage and its green, 
But clothe it with a glory all unseen. 



XLII 

"Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, 
or dead, 
I lift from error, or to action thrill! 
Or if it rage too madly in its bed. 

The tempest hushes at my 'Peace ! be 
still!' 
I know how far its tides should sing or 

swell, 
And they obey my sceptre and my spell. 

XLIII 

"All lovely things, and gentle — the sweet 

laugh 
Of children, Girlhood's kiss, and 

Friendship's clasp 
The boy that sporteth with the old man's 

staff, 
The baby, and the breast its fingers 

grasp — 70 

All that exalts the grounds of happiness. 
All griefs that hallow, and all joys that 

bless. 



"To me are sacred ; at my holy shrine 
Love breathes its latest dreams, its 
earliest hints ; 
I turn life's tasteless waters into wine. 
And flush them through and through 
with purple tints. 
Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks 

down, 
I rear my altars, and I wear my crown. 



"I sow the germ which buds in human art. 
And, with my sister. Science, I ex- 
plore 50 
With light the dark recesses of the heart. 
And nerve the will, and teach the wish 
to soar; 
I touch with grace the body's meanest 

clay, 
While noble souls are nobler for my sway. 



"I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought, 
I woke those shadowy questionings that 

vex 80 

Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud 

of thought. 
And rouse the soul they trouble and 

perplex ; 
I filled thy days with visions, and thy 

nights 
Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy 

sights. 



"Before my power the kings of earth have 
bowed; 
I am the voice of Freedom, and the 
sword 
Leaps from its scabbard when I call 
aloud ; 
Wherever life in sacrifice is poured, s8 
Wherever martyrs die, or patriots bleed, 
I weave the chaplet and award the meed. 



"Not here, not in this world, may I dis- 
close 
The mysteries in which this life is 
hearsed ; 
Some doubts there be that, with some 
earthly woes. 
By Death alone shall wholly be dis- 
persed ; 



344 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Yet on those very doubts from this low 

sod 
Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to 

God. 90 

XLVII 

"And so to knowledge, climbing grade by 

grade, 

Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can. 

And what thou mayst discover by my aid 

Thou shalt translate unto thy brother 

man ; 

And men shall bless the power that flings 

a ray 
Into their night from thy diviner day. 



XLVIII 

"For, from thy lofty height, thy words 
shall fall 
Upon their spirits like bright cataracts 
That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear 
them call 99 

Amid their endless waste of arid facts 
As wearily they plod their way along, 
Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song. 



"All this is in thy reach, but much depends 
Upon thyself — thy future I await; 

I give the genius, point the proper ends. 
But the true bard is his own only Fate; 

Into thy soul my soul have I infused ; 

Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used. 



"Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd 

Of varying hopes and fears, he still 

must brood; 

As from its azure height a tranquil cloud 

Watches its own bright changes in the 

flood ; 

Self - reading, not self - loving — they are 

twain — 
And sounding, while he mourns, the 
depths of pain. 



"Thus shall his songs attain the common 
breast. 
Dyed in his own life's blood, the sign 
and seal, 
Even as the thorns which are the martyr's 
crest, 
That do attest his office, and appeal 130 
Unto the universal human heart 
In sanction of his mission and his art. 



"Much yet remains unsaid — pure must he 

be; 
Oh, talessed are the pure ! for they shall 

hear 
Where others hear not, see where others 

see 
With a dazed vision : who have drawn 

most near 
My shrine, have ever brought a spirit 

cased 
And mailed in a body clean and chaste. 



"The Poet owes a high and holy debt, 
Which, if he feel, he craves not to be 
heard "" 

For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor 
yet 
Does the mere joy of song, as with the 
bird 
Of many voices, prompt the choral lay 
That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way. 



"Nor may he always sweep the passion- 
ate lyre. 
Which is his heart, only for such relief 
As an impatient spirit may desire. 

Lest, from the grave which hides a 
private grief. 
The spells of song call up some pallid 

wraith 
To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith, i^o 



"The Poet to the whole wide world be- 
longs. 
Even as the teacher is the child's — I 
said 140 

No selfish aim should ever mar his songs, 
But self wears many guises ; men may 
wed 
Self in another, and the soul may be 
Self to its centre, all unconsciously. 



"And therefore must the Poet watch, lest 
he. 
In the dark struggle of this life, should 
take 

Stains which he might not notice; he 
must flee 
Falsehood, however winsome, and for- 
sake 

All for the Truth, assured that Truth 
alone '49 

Is Beauty, and can make him all my own. 



HENRY TIMROD 



345 



"And he must be as armed warrior strong, 

And he must be as gentle as a girl, 
And he must front, and sometimes suffer 
wrong, 
With brow unbent, and lip untaught to 
curl ; 
For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however 

just. 
Fill the clear spirit's eyes with earthly 
dust." 

Before 1860. 



SONNET 

Life ever seems as from its present site 
It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the 

past 
It melts, with all their crags and cavern 

vast. 
Into a purple cloud ! Across the night 
Which hides what is to be, it shoots a 

light 
All rosy with the yet unriven dawn. 
Not the near daisies, but yon distant 

height 
Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn. 
And always, be the landscape what it 

may — 
Blue, misty hill or sweep of glimmering 

plain — 1° 

It is the eye's endeavor still to gain 
The fine, faint limit of the bounding day. 
God, haply, in this mystic mode, would 

fain 
Hint of a happier home, far, far away ! 

Before 1860? 



SONNET 

I scarcely grieve, O Nature ! at the lot 
That pent my life within a city's bounds, 
And shut me from thy sweetest sights 

and sounds. 
Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone 

cot 
Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the 

mart 
Taught jme amid its turmoil; so my youth 
Had missed full many a stern but whole- 
some truth. 
Here, too, O Nature ! in this haunt of Art, 
Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall. 
There is no unimpressive spot on earth ! lo 
The beauty of the stars is over all. 



And Day and Darkness visit every hearth. 
Clouds do not scorn us : yonder factory's 

smoke 
Looked like a golden mist when morning 

broke. 

Before 1860? 

SONNET 

I know not why, but all this weary day, 
Suggested by no definite grief or pain, 
Sad fancies have been flitting through my 

brain ; 
Now it has been a vessel losing way. 
Rounding a stormy headland ; now a gray 
Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main; 
And then, a banner, drooping in the rain, 
And meadows beaten into bloody clay. 
Strolling at random with this shadowy 

woe 
At heart,' I chanced to wander hither ! 

Lo! 10 

A league of desolate marsh-land, with its 

lush. 
Hot grasses in a noisome, tide-left bed. 
And faint, warm airs, that rustle in the 

hush. 
Like whispers round the body of the dead ! 

Before 1860? 

KATIE 

It may be through some foreign grace, 
And unfamiliar charm of face; 
It may be that across the foam 
Which bore her from her childhood's 

home, 
By some strange spell, my Katie brought. 
Along with English creeds and thought — 
Entangled in her golden hair — 
Some English sunshine, warmth, and air ! 
I cannot tell — but here to-day, 
A thousand billowy leagues away lo 

From that green isle whose twilight skies 
No darker are than Katie's eyes, 
She seems to me, go where she will. 
An English girl in England still ! 

I meet her on the dusty street, 
And daisies spring about her feet; 
Or, touched to life beneath her tread. 
An English cowslip lifts its head; 
And, as to do her grace, rise up 
The primrose and the buttercup ! 20 

I roam with her through fields of cane. 
And seem to stroll an English lane. 
Which, white with blossoms of the May, 
Spreads its green carpet in her way ! 



346 



AMERICAN POETRY 



As fancy wills, the path beneath 

Is golden gorse, or purple heath : 

And now we hear in woodlands dim 

Their unarticulated hymn, 

Now walk through rippling waves of 

wheat, 
Now sink in mats of clover sweet, 3° 

Or see before us from the lawn 
The lark go up to greet the dawn ! 
All birds that love the English sky 
Throng round my path when she is by: 
The blackbird from a neighboring thorn 
With music brims the cup of morn, 
And in a thick, melodious rain, 
The mavis pours her mellow strain ! 
But only when my Katie's voice 
Makes all the listening woods rejoice 4° 
I hear — with cheeks that flush and pale — 
The passion of the nightingale! 

1861? 



ETHNOGENESIS 

Written during the meeting of the First 

Soutliern Congress, at Montgomery, 

February, i86i. 



Hath not the morning dawned with added 

light? 
And shall not evening call another star 
Out of the infinite regions of the night. 
To mark this day in Heaven? At last, 

we are 
A nation among nations ; and the world 
Shall soon behold in many a distant port 

Another flag unfurled! 
Now, come what may, whose favor need 

we court? 
And, under God, whose thunder need we 

fear? 
Thank him who placed us here ^° 
Beneath so kind a sky — the very sun 
Takes part with us; and on our errands 

run 
All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain 
Do noiseless battle for us ; and the Year, 
And all the gentle daughters in her train, 
March in our ranks, and in our service 

wield 
Long spears of golden grain ! 
A yellow blossom as her fairy shield. 
June flings her azure banner to the wind. 
While in the order of their birth 20 

Her sisters pass, and many an ample field 
Grows white beneath their steps, till now, 

behold, 
Its endless sheets unfold 



The 



Snow of Southern 
the earth 



Summers! 



Let I 



Rejoice ! beneath those fleeces soft and 
warm 
Our happy land shall sleep 
In a repose as deep 
As if we lay intrenched behind 
Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic 
storm ! 



And what if, mad with wrongs themselves 
have wrought, 3° 

In their own treachery caught, 
By their own fears made bold, 
And leagued with him of old, 
W^ho long since in the limits of the North 
Set up his evil throne, and warred with 

God— 
What if, both mad and blinded in their 

rage. 
Our foes should fling us down their 

mortal gage, 
And with a hostile step profane our sod ! 
We shall not shrink, niy brothers, but go 

forth 
To meet them, marshaled by the Lord of 
Hosts, 40 

And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts 
Of Moultrie and of Eutaw— who shall foil 
Auxihars such as these? Nor these alone, 
But every stock and stone 
Shall help us ; but the very soil. 
And all the generous wealth it gives to 

toil. 
And all for which we love our noble land, 
Shall fight beside, and through us ; sea 
and strand. 
The heart of woman, and her hand. 
Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influ- 
ence, so 
Gentle, or grave, or grand; 
The winds in our defence 
Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall 
lend 
Their firmness and their calm ; 
And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend 
The strength of pine and palm ! 



Nor would we shun the battle-ground. 

Though weak as we are strong; 
Call up the clashing elements around. 

And test the right and wrong ! 60 

On one side, creeds that dare to teach 
What Christ and Paul refrained to preach; 
Codes built upon a broken pledge. 
And Charity that whets a poniard's edge; 



HENRY TIMROD 



347 



Fair schemes that leave the neighboring 

poor 
To starve and shiver at the schemer's 

door, 
While in the world's most liberal ranks 

enrolled, 
He turns some vast philanthropy to gold; 
Religion, taking every mortal form 
But that a pure and Christian faith makes 

warm, 70 

Where not to vile fanatic passion urged. 
Or not in vague philosophies submerged, 
Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, 
And making laws to stay the laws of 

Heaven ! 
And on the other, scorn of sordid gain, 
Unblemished honor, truth without a stain, 
Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth. 
And, for the poor and humble, laws which 

give. 
Not the mean right to buy the right to 

live, 
But life, and home, and health! f° 
To doubt the end were want of trust in 

God, 
Who, if he has decreed 
That we must pass a redder sea 
Than that which rang to Miriam's holy 

glee, 
Will surely raise at need 
A Moses with his rod! 



IV 

But let our fears — if fears we have — be 
still, 

And turn us to the future ! Could we 
climb 

Some mighty Alp, and view the coming 
time, 

The rapturous sight would fill 9° 

Our eyes with happy tears ! 

Not only for the glories which the years 

Shall bring us; not for lands from sea 
to sea, 

And wealth, and power, and peace, though 
these shall be; 

But for the distant peoples we shall bless. 

And the hushed murmurs of a world's 
distress : 

For, to give labor to the poor, 
The whole sad planet o'er, 

And save from want and crime the hum- 
blest door, 

Is one among the many ends for which 1°° 
God makes us great and rich ! 

The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe 

When all shall own it, but the type 



Whereby we shall be known in every land 

Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern 
strand, 

And through the cold, untempered ocean 
pours 

Its genial streams, that far off Arctic 
shores 

May sometimes catch upon the softened 
breeze 

Strange tropic warmth and hints of sum- 
mer seas. 

February, 1861. 



SPRING 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the 

air 
Which dwells with all things fair. 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver 

rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, Jo 

And there's a look about the leafless 

bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 

Of winter in the land, 

Save where the maple reddens on the 

lawn, 
Flushed by the season's dawn; 

Or where, like those strange semblances 

we find 
That age to childhood bind, 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
The brown of Autumn corn. 20 

As yet the turf is dark, although you 

know 
That, not a span below, 
A thousand germs are groping through 

the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

Already, here and there, on frailest stems 
Appear some azure gems. 
Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 
The forehead of a fay. 



348 



AMERICAN POETRY 



In gardens you may note amid the dearth 
The crocus breaking earth ; 3° 

And near the snowdrops' tender white 

and green, 
The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows need must 

pass 
Along the budding grass, 
And weeks go by, before the enamored 

South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet un- 
born 
In the sweet airs of morn; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 40 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating 

by,, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce 

would start, 
If from a beech's heart, 
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should 

say, 
"Behold me! I am May!" 

Ah ! who would couple thoughts of war 

and crime 
With such a blessed time ! 5° 

Who in the west wind's aromatic breath 
Could hear the call of Death! 

Yet not more surely shall the Spring 

awake 
The voice of wood and brake. 
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil 

charms, 
A million men to arms. 

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains 
Than all her sunlit rains. 
And every gladdening influence around. 
Can summon from the ground. 60 

Oh ! standing on this desecrated mould, 
Methinks that I behold, 
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, 
Spring kneeling on the sod, 

And calling, with the voice of all her 

rills. 
Upon the ancient hills 
To fall and crush the tyrants and the 

slaves 
Who turn her meads to graves. 



CAROLINA 



The despot treads thy sacred sands, 
Thy pines give shelter to his bands, 
Thy sons stand by with idle hands, 

Carolina ! 
He breathes at ease thy airs of balm. 
He scorns the lances of thy palm ; 
Oh ! who shall break thy craven calm, 

Carolina ! 
Thy ancient fame is growing dim, 
A spot is on thy garment's rim; 
Give to the winds thy battle hymn, 

Carolina ! 



Call on thy children of the hill, 
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, 
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, 

Carolina ! 
Cite wealth and science, trade and art. 
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart. 
And pour thee through the people's heart. 

Carolina ! ^ 

Till even the coward spurns his fears, 
And all thy fields and fens and meres 
Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, 

Carolina ! 



Hold up the glories of thy dead; 
Say how thy elder children bled, 
And point to Eutaw's battle-bed, 

Carolina I 
Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, 
And what his dauntless breast defied; 3° 
How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, 

Carolina ! 
Cry ! till thy summons, heard at last, 
Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast 
Re-echoed from the haunted past, 

Carolina ! 



I hear a murmur as of waves 

That grope their way through sunless 

caves, 
Like bodies struggling in their graves, 

Carolina I 4° 

And now it deepens ; slow and grand 
It swells, as, rolling to the land, 
An ocean broke upon thy strand, 

Carolina ! 
Shout ! let it reach the startled Huns ! 
And roar with all thy festal guns ! 
It is the answer of thy sons, 

Carolina ! 



HENRY TIMROD 



349 



They will not wait to hear thee call; 
From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall so 
Resounds the voice of hut and hall, 

Carolina ! 
No ! thou hast not a stain, they say, 
Or none save what the battle-day 
Shall wash in seas of blood away, 

Carolina ! 
Thy skirts indeed the foe may part, 
Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, 
They shall not touch thy noble heart, 

Carohna ! 60 



Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall 
Ten times ten thousand men must fall ; 
Thy corpse .may hearken to his call, 

Carolina ! 
When, by thy bier, in mournful throngs 
The women chant thy mortal wrongs, 
'T will be their own funereal songs, 

Carolina ! 
From thy dead breast by ruffians trod 
No helpless child shall look to God; 7" 
All shall be safe beneath thy sod, 

Carolina ! 



VII 

Girt with such wills to do and bear. 
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, 
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, 

Carolina ! 
Throw thy bold banner to the breeze ! 
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas 
Like thine own proud armorial trees, 

Carolina ! S° 

Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, 
And roar the challenge from thy guns; 
Then leave the future to thy sons, 

Carolina ! 

1861. 



CHARLESTON 

Calm as that second summer which pre- 
cedes 

The first fall of the snow, 
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds 

The city bides the foe. 

As yet, behind their ramparts stern and 
proud, 

Her bolted thunders sleep — 
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud. 

Looms o'er the solemn deep. 



No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar 
To guard the holy strand ; ^° 

But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of 
war 
Above the level sand. 

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie 
couched, 

Unseen, beside the flood — 
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched 

That wait and watch for blood. 

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing 
with trade. 
Walk grave and thoughtful men, 
Whose hands may one day wield the 
patriot's blade 
As lightly as the pen. so 

And maidens, with such eyes as would 
grow dim 
Over a bleeding hound. 
Seem each one to have caught the strength 
of him 
Whose sword she sadly bound. 

'Thus girt without and garrisoned at home. 

Day patient following day, 
Old Charleston looks from roof, and 
spire, and dome, 
Across her tranquil bay. 

Ships, through a hundred foes, from 
Saxon lands 

And spicy Indian ports, 30 

Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, 

And Summer to her courts. 

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line. 

The only hostile smoke 
Creeps like a harmless mist above the 
brine. 

From some frail, floating oak. 

Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad 
in smiles, 
And with an unscathed brow. 
Rest in the strong arms of her palm- 
crowned isles. 
As fair and free as now? 4° 

We know not; in the temple of the Fates 
God has inscribed her doom; 

And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits 
The triumph or the tomb. 

1861? 



350 



AMERICAN POETRY 



CHRISTMAS 

How grace this hallowed day? 
Shall happy bells, .from yonder ancient 

spire. 
Send their glad greetings to each Christ- 
mas fire 
Round which the children play? 

Alas ! for many a moon, 
That tongueless tower hath cleaved the 

Sabbath air. 
Mute as an obelisk of ice, aglare 

Beneath an Arctic noon. 

Shame to the foes that drown 
Our psalms of worship with their impious 
drum, 10 

The sweetest chimes in all the land lie 
dumb 
In some far rustic town. 

There, let us think, they keep, 
Of the dead Yules which here beside the 

sea 
They've ushered in with old-world, En- 
glish glee, 
Some echoes in their sleep. 

How shall we grace the day? 
With feast, and song, and dance, and an- 
tique sports, 
And shout of happy children in the courts. 

And tales of ghost and fay? 20 

Is there indeed a door, 
Where the old pastimes, with their law- 
ful noise, 
And all the merry round of Christmas 
joys, 
Could enter as of yore? 

Would not some pallid face 
Look in upon the banquet, calling up 
Dread shapes of battles in the wassail 
cup, 

And trouble all the place? 

How could we bear the mirth, 29 

While some loved reveller of a year ago 
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath 
the snow. 

In cold Virginian earth? 

How shall we grace the day? 
Ah ! let the thought that on this holy 

morn 
The Prince of Peace — the Prince of 
Peace was born. 
Employ us, while we pray ! 



Pray for the peace- which long 
Hath left this tortured land, and haply 

now 
Holds its white court on some far moun- 
tain's brow. 
There hardly safe from wrong! 4° 

Let every sacred fane 
Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, 
And, with the cloister and the tented sod. 

Join in one solemn strain ! 

With pomp of Roman form. 
With the grave ritual brought from Eng- 
land's shore. 
And with the simple faith which asks 
no more 
Than that the heart be warm ! 

He, who, till time shall, cease. 
Will watch that earth, where once, not 
all in vain, so 

He died to give us peace, may not disdain 

A prayer whose theme is — peace. 

Perhaps ere yet the Spring 
Hath died into the Summer, over all 
The land, the peace of His vast love 
shall fall, 

Like some protecting wing. 

Oh, ponder what it means ! 
Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every 

way. 
Oh, give the vision and the fancy play, 

And shape the coming scenes ! 60 

Peace in the quiet dales, 
Made rankly fertile by the blood of men. 
Peace in the woodland, and the lonely 
glen, 

Peace in the peopled vales ! 

Peace in the crowded town, 
Peace in a thousand fields of waving 

grain, 
Peace in the highway and the flowery lane. 

Peace on the wind-swept down ! 

Peace on the farthest seas. 
Peace in our sheltered bays and ample 
streams, 7° 

Peace whereso.e'er our starry garland 
streams. 
And peace in every breeze ! 



HENRY TIMROD 



351 



Peace on the whirring marts, 
Peace where the scholar thinks, and the 

hunter roams. 
Peace, God of Peace ! peace, peace, in all 
our homes, 
And peace in all our hearts ! 

1861? 

THE COTTON BOLL 

While I recline 

At ease beneath 

This immemorial pine, 

Small sphere ! 

(By dusky fingers brought this morning 
here 

And shown with boastful smiles), 

I turn thy cloven sheath. 

Through which the soft white fibres peer. 

That, with their gossamer bands, 

Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, lo 

And slowly, thread by thread. 

Draw forth the folded strands, 

Than which the trembling line. 

By whose frail help yon startled spider 
fled 

Down the tall spear-grass from his swing- 
ing bed. 

Is scarce more fine; 

And as the tangled skein 

Unravels in my hands. 

Betwixt me and the noonday light, 

A veil seems lifted, and for miles and 
miles ^ 

The landscape broadens on my sight, 

As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 

Like that which, in the ocean shell, 

With mystic sound, 

Breaks down the narrow walls that hem 
us round. 

And turns some city lane 

Into the restless main, 

With all his capes and isles! 

Yonder bird. 

Which floats, as if at rest, 3° 

In those blue tracts above the thunder, 

where 
No vapors cloud the stainless air, 
And never sound is heard. 
Unless at such rare time 
When, from the City of the Blest, 
Rings down some golden chime, 
Sees not from his high place 
So vast a cirque of summer space 
As widens round me in one mighty field. 
Which, rimmed by seas and sands, 4o 

Doth hail its earliest daylight in the 

beams 



Of gray Atlantic dawns; 

And, broad as realms made up of many 

lands, 
Is lost afar 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns 
Of sunset, among plains which roll their 

.streams 
Against the Evening Star ! 
And lo! 

To the remotest point of sight, 49 

Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, 
The endless field is white; 
And the whole landscape glows. 
For many a shining league away, 
With such accumulated light 
As Polar lands would flash beneath a 

tropic day ! 
Nor lack there (for the vision grows. 
And the small charm within my hands — 
More potent even than the fabled one. 
Which oped whatever golden mystery 
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, ^' 
The curious ointment of the Arabian 

tale — 
Beyond all mortal sense 
Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I 

see. 
Beneath its simple influence. 
As if with Uriel's crown, 
I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 
And looked, as Uriel, down!) 
Nor lack there pastures rich and fields 

all green 
With all the common gifts of God, 
For temperate airs and torrid sheen 7o 
Weave Edens of the sod; 
Through lands which look one sea of bil- 
lowy gold 
Broad rivers wind their devious ways ; 
A hundred isles in their embraces fold 
A hundred luminous bays ; 
Vast mountains lift -their plumed peaks 

cloud-crowned ; 
And, save where up their sides the plough- 
man creeps. 
An unhewn forest girds them grandly 

round. 
In whose dark shades a future navy 

sleeps ! _ ^° 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with 

me gaze 
Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth ! 
Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest 

rays 
Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 
Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the 

West 
See nothing brighter than its humblest 

flowers ! 



352 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's 

breast 
Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its 

bowers ! 
Bear witness with me in my song of 

praise. 
And tell the world that, since the world 

began, 9° 

No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays 
Or given a home to man ! 

But these are charms already widely 
blown ! 

His be the meed whose pencil's trace 

Hath touched our very swamps with 
grace. 

And round whose tuneful way 

All Southern laurels bloom; 

The Poet of "The Woodlands,"i unto 
whom 

Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trum- 
pet's tone, i°° 

And the soft west wind's sighs ; 

But who shall utter all the debt, 

O Land wherein all powers are met 

That bind a people's heart. 

The world doth owe thee at this day, 

And which it never can repay. 

Yet scarcely deigns to own ! * 

Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 

The source wherefrom doth spring 

That mighty commerce which, confined "" 

To the mean channels of the unselfish 
mart, 

Goes out to every shore 

Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea 
with ships 

That bear no thunders; hushes hungry 
lips 

In alien lands ; 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands ; 

And gladdening rich and poor. 

Doth gild Parisian domes. 

Or feed the cottage-smoke of English 
homes, 

And ' only bounds its blessings by man- 
kind ! . 12° 

In offices like these, thy mission lies, 

My country ! and it shall not ^end 

As long as rain shall fall and heaven 
bend 

In blue above thee; though thy foes be 
hard 

And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 

1 William Gilmore Simms (1806-1870), the 
leader of the Charleston literary group, who 
lived at the estate of his father-in-law, "Wood- 
lands," Barnwell District, S. C. 



Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark; make 

thee great 
In white and bloodless state; 
And haply, as the years increase — 
Still working through its humbler reach 
With that large wisdom which the ages 

teach — 130 

Revive the half-dead dream of universal 

peace ! 
As men who labor in that mine 
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the 

bed 
Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead. 
Hear the dull booming of the world of 

brine 
Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 
Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on. 
And split the rock, and pile the massive 

ore. 
Or carve a niche, or shape the arched 

roof; 
So I, as calmly, weave my woof ^40 

Of song, chanting the days to come, 
Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 
Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each 

dawn 
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 
Of many gathering armies. Still, 
In that we sometimes hear, 
Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe 
Not wholly drowned in triumph, though 

I know 
The end must crown us, and a few brief 

years 
Dry all our tears, iso 

I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will 
Resigned, O Lord ! we cannot all forget 
That there is much even Victory must 

regret. 
And, therefore, not too long 
From the great burthen of our country's 

wrong 
Delay our just release! 
And, if it may be, save 
These sacred fields of peace 
From stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 
Oh, help us. Lord ! to roll the crimson 

flood 16° 

Back on its course, and, while our ban- 
ners wing 
Northward, strike with us ! till the Goth 

shall cling 
To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave 
Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate 
The lenient future of his fate 
There, where some rotting ships and 

crumbling quays 
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled 

the Western seas. 



HENRY TIMROD 



353 



ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE 
OPENING OF THE NEW THE- 
ATRE AT RICHMOND 

A prize poem. ^ 

A fairy ring 
Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain — 
From whose weird circle every loathsome 
thing 
And sight and sound of pain 
Are banished, while about it in the air, 
And from the ground, and from the low- 
hung skies. 
Throng, in a vision fair 
As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, 

Gleams of that unseen world 9 

That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes 

With starry wings unfurled, 
Poised for a moment on such airy capes 
As pierce the golden foam 
Of sunset's silent main — 
Would image what in this enchanted 
dome, 
Amid the night of war and death 
In which the armed city draws its breath. 

We have built up ! 
For though no wizard wand or magic cup 
The spell hath wrought, 20 

Within this charmed fane, we ope the 
gates 
Of that divinest Fairy-land, 
Where under loftier fates 
Than rule the vulgar earth on which we 

stand. 
Move the bright creatures of the realm 

of thought. 
Shut for one happy evening from the flood 
That roars around us, here you may be- 
hold- 
As if a desert way 
Could blossom and unfold 
A garden fresh with May — 30 

Substantiahzed in breathing flesh and 
blood. 
Souls that upon the poet's page 
Have lived from age to age. 
And yet have never donned this mortal 
clay. 
A golden strand 
Shall sometimes spread before you like 
the isle 
Where fair Miranda's smile 
Met the sweet stranger whom the father's 
art 
Had led unto her heart. 
Which, like a bud that waited for the 
light, _ 40 

Burst into bloom at sight! • 



Love shall grow softer in each maiden's 

eyes 
As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand. 
And prattles to the night. 
Anon, a reverend form, 
With tattered robe and forehead 
bare, 
That challenge all the torments of the 
air, 

Goes by ! 
And the pent feelings choke in one long 

sigh, 
While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you 
hear so 

The noble wreck of Lear 
Reproach like things of life the ancient 
skies, 
And commune with the storm ! 
Lo ! next a dim and silent chamber where, 
Wrapt in glad dreams in which, per- 
chance, the Moor 
Tells his strange story o'er. 
The gentle Desdemona chastely lies. 
Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. 
Then through a hush like death 
Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! 60 
And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful 

breath 
Which is the trumpet to a countless host 
Of reasons, but which wakes no deed 
from sleep ; 
For while it calls to strife, 
He pauses on the very brink of fact 
To toy as with the shadow of an act, 
And utter those wise saws that cut so deep 
Into the core of life! 

Nor shall be wanting many a scene 
Where forms of more familiar mien, 
Moving through lowlier pathways, shall 
present 7i 

The world of every day. 
Such as it whirls along the busy quay. 
Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall. 
Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, 
Or toils in attics dark the night away. 
Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, 

shall meet, 
As in the round wherein our lives are 
pent; 
Chance for a while shall seem to 
reign. 
While Goodness roves like Guilt about 
the street, ^0 

And Guilt looks innocent. 
But all at last shall vindicate the right. 
Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, 
Motes shall be taken from the doubter's 
sight. 



354 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And Fortune's general justice rendered 

plain. 
Of honest laughter there shall be no 

dearth, 
Wit shall shake hands with humor grave 

and sweet, 
Our wisdom shall not be too wise for 

mirth, 
Nor kindred foUies want a fool to greet. 
As sometimes from the meanest spot of 

earth 90 

A sudden beauty unexpected starts. 
So you shall find some germs of hidden 

worth 
Within the vilest hearts; 
And now and then, when in those moods 

that turn 
To the cold Muse that whips a fault with 

sneers. 
You shall, perchance, be strangely" touched 

to learn 
You've struck a spring of tears! 



But while we lead you thus from change 

to change. 
Shall we not find within our ample range 
Some type to elevate a people's heart — 1°° 
Some hero who shall teach a hero's part 

In this distracted time? 
Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell ! 
And, with the Alpine thunders of thy 

voice, 
As if across the billows unenthralled 
Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called. 

Bid Liberty rejoice! 
Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand 
The deeds which, more than their own 

awful mien, 
Make every crag of Switzerland sub- 
lime! "O 
And say to those whose feeble souls 

would lean, 
Not on themselves, but on some out- 
stretched hand, 
That once a single mind sufficed to quell 
The malice of a tyrant; let them know 
That each may crowd in every well-aimed 

blow. 
Not the poor strength alone of arm and 

brand, 
But the whole spirit of a mighty land ! 



Meanwhile, with that calm courage which 

can smile 
Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, 
Let us among the charms of Art awhile 

Fleet the deep gloom away ; 
Nor yet forget that on each hand and 

head 
Rest the dear rights for which we fight 

and pray. 



STORM AND CALM. 

Sweet are these kisses of the South, 
As dropped from woman's rosiest mouth, 
And tenderer are those azure skies 
Than this world's tenderest pair of eyes ! 



But ah ! beneath such influence 
Thought is too often lost in Sense; 
And Action, faltering as we thrill. 
Sinks in the unnerved arms of Will. 



Awake, thou stormy North, and blast 
The subtle spells around us cast; ^° 

Beat from our limbs these flowery chains 
With the sharp scourges of thy rains I 



Bring with thee from thy Polar cave 
All the wild songs of wind and wave. 
Of toppling berg and grinding floe. 
And the dread avalanche of snow ! 

Wrap us in Arctic night and clouds ! 
Yell like a fiend amid the shrouds 
Of some slow-sinking vessel, when 
He hears the shrieks of drowning men ! 

Blend in thy mighty voice whate'er 
Of danger, terror, and despair 
Thou hast encountered in thy sweep 
Across the land and o'er the deep. 

Pour in our ears all notes of woe, 
That, as these very moments flow. 
Rise like a harsh discordant psalm. 
While we lie here in tropic calm. 



Bid Liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day 
Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be 

red 
With the large promise of the coming 

ray. 1^0 



Sting our weak hearts with bitter shame, 
Bear us along with thee like flame; 30 
And prove that even to destroy 
More God-like may be than to toy 
And rust or rot in idle joy ! 



HENRY TIMROD 



355 



1866 

ADDRESS TO THE OLD YEAR 

Art thou not glad to close 

Thy wearied eyes, O saddest child of 

Time, 
Eyes which have looked on every mor- 
tal crime. 
And swept the piteous round of mortal 
woes? 



In dark Plutonian caves, 

Beneath the lowest deep, go, hide thy 

head; 
Or earth thee where the blood that thou 
hast shed 
May trickle on thee from thy countless 
graves ! . 



Take with thee all thy gloom 
Ar.d guilt, and all our griefs, save what 

the breast, i° 

• Without a wrong to some dear shadowy 

guest, 
May not surrender even to the tomb. 



No tear shall weep thy fall. 

When, as the midnight bell doth toll thy 
fate, 

Another lifts the sceptre of thy state. 
And sits a monarch in thine ancient hall. 



Him all the hours attend. 

With a new hope like morning in their 

eyes; 
Him the fair earth and him these radi- 
ant skies 
Hail as their sovereign, welcome as their 
friend. ^o 

Him, too, the nations wait ; 

"O lead us from the shadow of the 
Past," 

In a long wail like this December blast. 
They cry, and, crying, grow less desolate. 

How he will shape his sway 
They ask not — for old doubts and fears 

will cling — 
And yet they trust that, somehow, he 
will bring 
A. sweeter sunshine than thy mildest day. 

Beneath his gentle hand 

They hope to see no meadow, vale, or 

hill 30 

Stained with a deeper red than roses 

spill. 

When some too boisterous zephyr sweeps 

the land. 

A time of peaceful prayer, 

Of law, love, labor, honest loss and 

gain— 
These are the visions of the coming 
reign 
Now floating to them on this wintry air. 

165-6. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
(1830-1886) 



THE WILL AND THE WING 

To have the will to soar, but not the 
wings, 
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height. 
Whence stately shapes of grand imagi- 
nings 
Flash down the splendors of imperial 
light; 

And yet to lack the charm that makes 
them ours, 
The obedient vassals of that conquering 
spell, 
Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers 
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell ; 

This is the doom of Tantalus — the thirst 
For beauty's balmy fount to quench the 
fires 10 

Of the wild passion that our souls have 
nurst 
In hopeless promptings — unfulfilled de- 
sires. 

Yet would I rather in the outward state 
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, 

A beggar basking by that radiant gate, 
Than bend beneath the haughtiest em- 
pire's crown ! 

For sometimes, through the bars, my 
ravished eyes 
Have caught brief glimpses of a life 
divine, 
And seen afar, mysterious rapture rise 
Beyond the veil that guards the inmost 
shrine. 2° 

1855? 
MY STUDY 

This is my world ! within these narrow 

walls, 
I own a princely service ; the hot care 
And tumult of our frenzied life are here 
But as a ghost, and echo ; what befalls 
In the far mart to me is less than naught ; 
I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies, 
And wander by the brink of hoary seas. 
Calmed to the tendance of untroubled 

thought : 
Or if a livelier humor should enhance 



356 



The slow-timed pulse, 'tis not for pres- 
ent strife, 10 
The sordid zeal with which our age is rife. 
Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud 

or chance, 
But gleanings of the lost, heroic hfe. 
Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of 
romance. 

1855? 

BEYOND THE POTOMAC 1 

They slept on the fields which their valor 

had won ! 
But arose with the first early blush of 

the sun. 
For they knew that a great deed remained 

to be done. 
When they passed o'er the River. 

They rose with the sun, and caught life 

from his light — 
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in 

fight— 
And they laughed out aloud in the joy 

of their might. 
Marching swift for the River. 

On ! on ! like the rushing of storms 

through the hills — 
On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their 

wills — 10 

And the one heart of thousands grows 

buoyant and thrills, 
At the thought of the River. 

On! the sheen of their swords! the fierce 

gleam of their eyes 
It seemed as on earth a new sunlight 

would rise. 
And king-like, flash up to the sun in the 

skies. 
O'er the path to the River. 

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all 

darkened with gore, 
On a strong wind of morning stream 

wildly before. 
Like the wings of Death-angels swept 

fast to the shore. 
The green shore of the River. 20 

* Published in the Richmond Whiff at the time 
of Stonewall Jackson's last raid into Maryland. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 



357 



As they march — from the hill-side, the 

hamlet, the stream — - 
Gaunt throngs whom the Foeman had 

manacled, teem. 
Like men just aroused from some terrible 

dream. 
To pass o'er the River. 

They behold the broad banners, blood- 
darkened, yet fair, 

And a moment dissolves the last spell of 
despair. 

While a peal as of victory swells on the 
air, 
Rolling out to the River. 

And that cry, with a thousand strange 

echoings spread, 
Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in 

their bed, 30 

And the deep voice of passion surged up 

from the dead — 
Aye ! press on to the River. 

On ! on ! like the rushing of storms 

through the hills. 
On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as 

their wills. 
And the one heart of thousands grows 

buoyant, and thrills. 
As they pause by the River. 

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard, 

and worn. 
At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect 

forlorn. 
And she turned on the Foeman full stat- 

ured in scorn. 
Pointing stern to the River. 4° 

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heav- 
ing her breast, 

With her low-lying billows all bright in 
the west. 

For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters 
to rest 
Of the fair rolling River. 

Passed! passed! the glad thousands march 

safe through the tide. 
(Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell 

of your pride, 
Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up 

from the side 
Of the calm flowing River.) 



'Neath a blow swift and mighty the Ty- 
rant shall fall. 

Vain ! vain ! to his God swells a desolate 
call, 50 

For his grave has been hollowed, and 
woven his pall. 
Since they passed o'er the River. 

Richmond Whig, 1862. 



VICKSBURG— A BALLAD 

For sixty days and upwards, 

A storm of shell and shot 
Rained round us in a flaming shower. 

But still we faltered not. 
"If the noble city perish," 

Our grand young leader said, 
"Let the only walls our foe shall scale 

Be ramparts of the dead !" 

For sixty days and upwards. 

The eye of heaven waxed dim; i" 

And e'en throughout God's holy morn, 

O'er Christian prayer and hymn, 
Arose a hissing tumult, 

As if the fiends in air 
Strove to engulf the voice of faith 

In the shrieks of their despair. 

There was wailing in the houses, 

There was trembling in the marts. 
While the tempest raged and thundered. 

'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; 2° 

But the Lord, our Shield, was with us. 

And ere a month had sped. 
Our very women walked the streets 

With scarce one throb of dread. 

And the little children gamboled. 

Their faces purely raised, 
Just for a wondering moment. 

As the huge bombs whirled and, blazed, 
Then turned with silvery laughter 

To the sports which children love, 3" 
Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive 
thought 

That the good God watched above. 

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster. 

From scores of flame-clad ships. 
And about us, denser, darker, 

Grew the conflict's wild eclipse. 
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us. 

Like a type of doom and ire. 
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues 

Of forked and vengeful fire, A° 



358 



AMERICAN POETRY 



But the unseen hands of angels 

Those death-shafts warned aside, 
And the dove of heavenly mercy 

Ruled o'er the battle tide; 
In the houses ceased the wailing, 

x\nd through the war-scarred marts 
The people strode, with step of hope, 

To the music in their hearts. 

1863. 



Alas ! dim, dim, and dimmer 
Grows the preternatural glimmer 
Of that trance the South Wind brought 
me on her subtle wings of balm, 
For behold ! its spirit flieth 
And its fairy murmur dieth. 
And the silence closing round me is a dull 
and soulless calm ! 



A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WINDS 

O fresh, how fresh and fair 
Through the crystal gulfs of air, 
The fairy South Wind floateth on her 
subtle wings of balm ! 
And the green carta lapped in bliss, 
To the magic of her kiss 
Seems yearning upward fondly through 
the golden-crested calm ! 

From the distant Tropic strand. 
Where the billows, bright and bland. 
Go creeping, curling round the palms with 
sweet, faint undertune. 
From its fields of purpling flowers 'o 
Still wet with fragrant showers. 
The happy South Wind lingering sweeps 
the royal blooms of June. 

All heavenly fancies rise 
On the perfume of her sighs, 
W'hich steep the inmost spirit in a languor 
rare and fine, 
And a peace more pure than sleep's 
Unto dim, half-conscious deeps. 
Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on 
its twilight tides divine. 

Those dreams ! ah me ! the splendor, 
So mystical and tender, -'^ 

Wherewith like soft heat-Hghtnings they 
gird their meaning round. 
And those waters, caUing, calling. 
With a nameless charm enthralling. 
Like the ghost of music melting on a 
rainbow spray of sound ! 

Touch, touch me not, nor wake me. 

Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me. 
From earth receding faintly with her 
dreary din and jars — 
What viewless arms caress me? 
What whispered voices bless me. 
With welcome dropping dewlike from the 
weird and wondrous stars? 30 



SONNET— POETS 

Some thunder on the heights of song, 

their race 
Godlike in power, while others at their 

feet 
Are breathing measures scarce less strong 

and sweet 
Than those that peal from out that loftiest 

place ; 
Meantime, just midway on the mount, his 

face 
Fairer than April heavens, when storms 

retreat. 
And on their edges rain and sunshine 

meet. 
Pipes the soft lyrist lays of tender grace ; 
But where the slopes of bright Parnassus 

sweep 
Near to the common ground, a various 

throng 10 

Chant lowlier measures — y^et each tuneful 

strain 
(The silvery minor of earth's perfect 

song) 
Blends with that music of the topmost 

steep 
O'er whose vast realm the master min- 
strels reign ! 



ASPECTS OF THE PINES 

Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning 
sky 
They rise, scarce touched by melancholy 
airs, 
W'hich stir the fadeless foliage dream- 
fully, 
As if from realms of mystical despairs. 

Tall, sombre, grim, they stand with dusky- 
gleams 
Brightening to gold within the wood- 
land's core. 
Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil 
beams — 
But the weird winds of morning sigh 
no more. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 



359 



A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, 
Broods round and o'er them in the 
wind's surcease, i" 

And on each tinted copse and shimmering 
dell 
Rests the mute rapture of deep-hearted 
peace. 

Last, sunset comes — the solemn joy and 
might 
Borne from the West when cloudless 
day declines — - 
Low, flutelike breezes sweep the waves 
of light. 
And lifting dark green tresses of the 
pines, 

Till every lock is luminous — gently float. 

Fraught with hale odors up the heavens 

afar 

To faint when twilight on her virginal 

throat 

Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper 

star. 20 

The Atlantic Monthly, Sept., 1872. 



UNVEILED 

I cannot tell when first I saw her face; 
Was it athwart a sunset on the sea, 
When the huge billows heaved tumultu- 
ously. 
Or in the quiet of some woodland place, 

Wrapped by the shadowy boon 
Of breezeless verdures from the summer 
noon? 
Or likelier still, in a rock-girdled dell 
Between vast mountains, while the mid- 
night hour 
_^Blossomed above me like a shining 
flower. 
Whose star-wrought petals turned the 
fields of space ^° 

To one great garden of mysterious light? 

Vain ! vain ! I cannot tell 
When first the beauty and majestic might 
Of her calm presence, bore my soul apart 
From all low issues of the groveling 

world — 
About me their own peace and grandeur 
furled — 
Filling the conscious heart 
With vague, sweet wisdom drawn from 
earth or sky — - 

Secrets that glance towards eternity, 
Visions divine, and thoughts ineffable ! 20 
But ever since that immemorial day, 



A steadfast flame hath burned in brain 

and blood. 
Urging me onward in the perilous search 
For sacred haunts our queenly mother 
loves ; 

By field and flood, 
Thro' neighboring realms, and regions 
far away, 
Have I not followed, followed where 

she led, 

Tracking wild rivers to their fountain 

head, 

And wilder desert spaces, mournful vast. 

Where Nature, fronting her inscrutable 

past, 30 

Holds bleak communion only with the 

dead; 
Yearning meanwhile, for pinions like a 
dove's, 
To waft me farther still. 
Beyond the compass of the unwinged will; 
Yea, waft me northward, southward, east, 
west, 
By fabled isles, and undiscovered lands, 
To where enthroned upon his mountain- 
perch. 
The sovereign eagle stands, 
Guarding the unfledged eaglets in their 
nest. 
Above the thunders of the sea and 
storm ? 40 

Oh ! sometimes by the fire 
Of holy passion, in me, all subdued, 
And melted to a mortal woman's mood, 

Tender and warm — 
She, from her goddess height, 
In gracious answer to my soul's desire, 
Descending softly, lifts her Isis veil. 
To bend on me the untranslated light 
Of fathomless eyes, and brow divinely pale ; 
She lays on mine her firm, immortal 
hand ; s-^ 

And I, encompassed by a magical mist. 
Feel that her lips have kissed 
Mine eyes and forehead — how the influ- 
ence fine 
Of her deep life runs like Arcadian wine 
Through all my being ! How a moment 

pressed 
To the large fountains of her opulent 

breast, 
A rapture smites me, half akin to pain ; 
A sun-flash quivering through white 
chords of rain ! 

Thenceforth, I walked 
The earth all-seeing — not her stateliest 
forms 60 



360 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Alone engrossed me, nor her sounds of 

power ; 
Mountains and oceans, and the rage of 

storms ; 
Fierce cataracts hurled from awful steep 

to steep, 
Or the gray water-spouts, that whirling 

tower 
Along the darkened bosom of the deep ; 
But all fair, fairy forms; all vital things. 
That breathe or blossom 'midst our boun- 
teous springs ; 
In sylvan nooks rejoicingly I met 
The wild rose and the violet; 
On dewy hill - slopes pausing, fondly 

talked 7° 

With the coy wild-flower, and the grasses 

brown. 
That in a subtle language of their own 
(Caught from the spirits of the wandering 

breeze). 
Quaintly responded; while the heavens 

looked down 

As graciously on these 
Titania growths, as on sublimer shapes 
Of century-molded continents, that be- 

mock 
Alike the earthquake's and the billow's 

shock 
By Orient inlands and cold ocean capes ! 



The giant constellations rose and set : 80 
I knew them all and worshipped all I 

knew; 
Yet, from their empire in the pregnant 
blue, 
Sweeping from planet-orbits to faint 

bars 
Of nebulous cloud, beyond the range 
of stars, 
I turned to worship with a heart as true, 
Long mosses drooping from the cypress 

tree; 
The virginal vines that stretched re- 
motely dim. 

From forest limb to limb; 
Network of golden ferns, whose tracery 

weaves 
In lingering twilights of warm August 
eves, 90 

Ethereal frescoes, pictures fugitive. 
Drawn on the flickering and fair-foli- 

aged wall 
Of the dense forest, ere the night 
shades fall : 
Rushes rock-tangled, whose mixed colors 
live 



In the pure moisture by a fountain's 
brim : 
The sylph-like reeds, wave-born, that to 

and fro 
Move ever to the waters' rhythmic 
flow. 
Blent with the humming of the wild- 
wood bee. 
And the winds' under thrills of mys- 
tery; 
The twinkling "ground-stars," full of 
modest cheer, 10° 

Each her cerulean cup 
In humble supplication lifting up. 
To catch whate'er the kindly heavens may 

give 
Of flooded sunshine, or celestial dew; 
And even when, self-poised in airy grace, 

Their phantom lightness stirs 
Through glistening shadows of a secret 
place 
The silvery-tinted gossamers ; 
For thus hath Nature taught amid her 
All— "9 

The complex miracles of land and sea, 
And infinite marvels of the infinite air 
No life is trivial, no creation small ! 
Ever I walk the earth. 
As one whose spiritual ear 
Is strangely purged and purified to hear 
Its multitudinous voices ; from the shore 
Whereon the savage Arctic surges roar, 
And the stupendous base of choral waves 
Thunders o'er "wandering graves," 
Frorii warrior-winds whose viewless co- 
horts charge ^^^ 
The banded mists through Cloudland's 
vaporous dearth 
Pealing their battle bugles round the 
marge 
Of dreary fen and desolated moor; 
Down to the ripple of shy woodland rills 
Chanting their delicate treble 'mid the 

hills. 
And ancient hollows of the enchanted 

ground, 
I pass with reverent thought, 
Attuned to every tiniest trill of sound, 
Whether by brook or bird 
The perfumed air be stirred. ^3° 
But most, because the unwaried strains 

are fraught 
With Nature's freedom in her happiest 

moods, 
I love the mock-bird's, and brown thrush's 
lay, 
The melted soul of May, 
Beneath those matchless notes, 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 



361 



From jocund hearts upwelled to fervid 
throats, 

In gushes of clear harmony, 
I seem, ofttimes I seem 
To find remoter meanings ; the far tone 
Of ante-natal music faintly blown 140 

From out the misted realins of memory; 
The pathos and the passion of a dream; 
Or broken fugues oL a diviner tongue 
That e'er hath chanted, since our earth 

was young. 
And o'er her peace-enamored solitudes 
The stars of morning sung! 



THE MOCKING-BIRD 

A golden pallor of voluptuous light 

Filled the warm Southern night; 

The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan 

scene 
Moved like a stately queen. 
So rife with conscious beauty all the 

while. 
What could she do but smile 
At her own perfect loveliness below, 
Glassed in the tranquil flow 
Of crystal fountains 

And unruffled streams? - ^° 

Half lost in waking dreams. 
As down the loneHest forest dell I strayed, 
Lo ! from a neighboring glade. 
Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, 

swiftly came 
A fiery shape of flame. 
It rose in dazzling spirals overhead. 
Whence, to wild sweetness wed. 
Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill 

on trill; 
The very leaves grew still 
On the charmed trees to barken; while, 

for me, 20 

Heart-thrilled ecstasy, 
I followed — followed the bright shape that 

flew. 
Still circling up the blue. 
Till as a fountain that has reached its 

height 
Falls back in sprays of light 
Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay. 
Divinely melts away 

Through tremulous spaces to a music- 
mist 
Soon by the fitful breeze 
How gently kissed 3° 

Into remote and tender silences. 



TO HENRY W- LONGFELLOW 

I think earth's noblest, most pathetic sight 

Is some old poet, round whose laurel- 
crown 

The long gray locks are streaming softly 
down ; 

Whose evening, touched by prescient 
shades of night, 

Grows tranquillized, in calm, ethereal 
hght : 

Such, such art thou, O master ! worthier 
grown 

In the fair sunset of thy full renown. 

Poising, perchance, thy spiritual wings 
for flight! 

Ah, heaven ! why shouldst thou f rqm thy 
place depart? 

God's court is thronged with minstrels, 
rich with song; 10 

Even now, a new note 1 swells the im- 
maculate choir ; 

But thou, whose strains have filled our 
lives so long. 

Still from the altar of thy reverent heart 

Let golden dreams ascend, and thoughts 
of fire. 



UNDER THE PINE 

To the Metnory of Henry Timrod 

The same majestic pine is lifted high 

Against the twilight sky, 

The same low, melancholy music grieves 

Amid the topmost leaves. 

As when I watched, and mused, and 

dreamed with him 
Beneath these shadows dim. 

O Tree ! hast thou no memory at thy core 

Of one who comes no more? 

No yearning memory of those scenes that 

were 
So richly calm and fair, 10 

When the last rays of sunset, shimmering 

down. 
Flashed like a royal crown? 

And he,- with hand outstretched and eyes 

ablaze. 
Looked forth with burning gaze. 
And seemed to drink the sunset like 

strong wine. 
Or, hushed in trance divine, 

^ Very possibly Lanier, whose chief develop- 
ment came after 1875, and whose early death 
came in 1881, a year before Longfellow's. 



362 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Hailed the first shy and timorous glance 

from far 
Of evening's virgin star? 

O Tree ! against th}- mighty trunk he laid 
His weary head; thy shade 20 

Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of 

sleep : 
It brought a peace so deep 
The unquiet passion died from out his 

eyes, 
As lightning from stilled skies. 

And in that calm he loved to rest, and 

hear 
The soft wind-angels, clear 
And sw^eet, among the uppermost branches 

_ sighing : 
\'oices he heard replying 
(Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic 

height, 
And pinions rustling light. 3° 

O Tree ! have not his poet-touch, his 
dreams 

So full of heavenly gleams. 

Wrought through the folded dullness of 
th}^ bark. 

And all thy nature dark 

Stirred to slow throbbings, and the flut- 
tering fire 

Of faint, unknown desire? 

At least to me there sweeps no rugged 

ring 
That girds the forest-king 
Nc immemorial stain, or awful rent 
(The mark of tempest spent), 4° 

No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine- 

o'ergrown. 
No distant, flickering cone. 

But speaks of him, and seems to bring 

once more 
The joy, the love of yore; 
But most when breathed from out the 

sunset-land 
The sunset airs are bland, 
That blow between the twilight and the 

night. 
Ere yet the stars are bright; 

For then that quiet eve comes back to me. 
When, deeply, thrillingly, so 

He spake of lofty hopes \vhich vanquish 

Death; 
And on his mortal brealh 
A language of immortal meanings hung, 
That fired his heart and tongue. 



For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh. 

Murmuring, "Look up ! 'tis I : 

Thy friend is near thee ! Ah, thou canst 

not see !" 
And through the sacred tree 
Passes what seems a wild and sentient 

thrill- 
Passes, and all is still ! — 6° 

Still as the grave which holds his tranquil 

form. 
Hushed after many a storm, — 
Still as the calm that crowns his marble 

brow. 
No pain can wrinkle now, — 
Still as the peace — pathetic peace of God — 
That wraps the holy sod, 

Where every flower from our dead min- 
strel's dust 
Should bloom, a type of trust, — 
That faith which waxed to wings of heav- 
enward might 
To bear his soul from night, — 7° 

That faith, dear Christ ! whereby we pray 

to meet 
His spirit at God's feet ! 



THE SNOW-MESSENGERS 

Dedicated to John Greenleaf Whittier and 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with pen por- 
traits of both. 

The pine-trees lift their dark, bewildered 

eyes — 
Or so I deem — up to the clouded skies ; 
No breeze, no faintest breeze, is heard 

to blow : 
In wizard silence falls the windless snow. 



It falls in breezeless quiet, strangely still ; 
'Scapes the dulled pane, but loads the 

sheltering sill. 
With curious hand the fleecy flakes I 

mould 
And draw them inward, rounded, from 

the cold. 

The glittering ball that chills my finger- 
tips 9 

I hold a moment's space to loving lips ; 

For from the northward these pure snow- 
flakes came. 

And to my touch their coldness thrills like 
flame. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 



363 



Outbreathed from luminous memories 

nursed apart, 
Deep in the veiled adytum of the heart, 
The type of Norland dearth such snows 

may be : 
They bring the soul of summer's warmth 

to me. 

Beholding them, in magical light expands 
The changeful charm that crowns the 

northern lands, 
And a fair past I deemed a glory fled 
Comes back, with happy sunshine round 

its head. 20 

For Ariel fancy takes her airiest flights 
To pass once more o'er Hampshire's 

mountain heights. 
To view the flower-bright pastures bloom 

in grace 
By many a lowering hillside's swarthy 

base; 

The fruitful farms, the enchanted vales, 

to view, 
And the coy mountain lakes' transcendent 

blue. 
Or flash of sea-waves up the thunderous 

dune, 
With wan sails whitening in the midnight 

moon; 

The cataract front of storm, malignly rife 
With deathless instincts of demoniac 

strife, 30 

Or, in shy contrast, down a shaded dell. 
The rivulet tinkling like an Alpine bell; 

But, tireless fancy, stay the wing that 

roams, 
And fold it last near northern hearts and 

homes. 

These tropic veins still own their kindred 

heat, 
And thoughts of thee, my cherished 

South, are sweet — 
Mournfully sweet — and wed to memories 

vast. 
High-hovering still o'er thy majestic past. 

But a new epoch greets us ; with it blends 
The voice of ancient foes now changed 

to friends, 40 

Ah ! who would friendship's outstretched 

hand despise, 
Or mock the kindling light in generous 

eyes ? 



And many a cool, calm stretch of cul- 
tured lawn. 

Touched by the freshness of the crystal 
dawn, 

Sloped to the sea, whose laughing waters 
meet 

About the unrobed virgin's rosy feet. 

So, 'neath the Quaker-poet's tranquil roof. 
From all dull discords of the world aloof, 
I sit once more, and measured converse 

hold 
With him whose nobler thoughts are 

rhythmic gold; 50 

See his deep brows half puckered in a 
knot 

O'er some hard problem of our mortal 
lot. 

Or a dream soft as May winds of the 
south 

Waft a girl's sweetness round his firm- 
set mouth. 

Or should he deem wrong threats the 
public weal, 

Lo! the whole man seems girt with flash- 
ing steel; 

His glance a sword thrust, and his words 
of ire 

Like thunder-tones from some old proph- 
et's lyre. 

Or by the hearth-stone when the day is 
done, 

Mark, swiftly launched, a sudden shaft 
of fun ; 60 

The short quick laugh, the smartly smit- 
ten knees. 

And all sure tokens of a mind at ease. 

Discerning which, by some mysterious 

law, 
Near to his seat two household favorites 

draw. 
Till on her master's shoulders, sly and 

sleek. 
Grimalkin, mounting, rubs his furrowed 

cheek ; 

While terrier Dick, denied all words to 

rail. 
Snarls as he shakes a short protesting 

tail, 
But with shrewd eyes says, plain as plain 

can be, 
"Drop that sly cat. I'm worthier far than 

she." 70 



364 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And he who loves all lowliest lives to 

please. 
Conciliates soon his dumb Diogenes, 
Who in return his garment nips with care, 
And drags the poet out, to take the air. 

God's innocent pensioners in the wood- 
lands dim. 

The fields and pastures, know and trust 
in him; 

And in tlicir love his loneW heart is 
blessed. 

Our pure, hale-minded Cowper of the 
West ! 

The scene is changed; and now I stand 
again 79 

By one, the cordial prince of kindly men. 

Courtly yet natural, comrade meet for 
kings, 

But fond of homeliest things. 

A poet, too, in whose warm brain and 

breast 
W'hat birds of song have filled a golden 

nest. 
Till in song's summer prime their wings 

unfurled, 
Have made Arcadian half the listening 

world, 

Around whose eve some radiant grace of 

morn 
Smiles like the dew-light on a mountain 

thorn. 
Blithely he bears Time's envious load 

to-day : 
Ah ! the green heart o'ertops the head 

of gray. 9° 

Alert as youth, with vivid, various talk 
He wiles the way through grove and 

garden walk. 
Fair flowers untrained, trees fraught with 

wedded doves, 
Past the cool copse and willowy glade he 

loves. 

Here gleams innocuous of a mirthful 
mood 

Pulse like mild fireflies down a dusky 
wood. 

Or keener speech (his leonine head un- 
bowed) 

Speeds lightning - clear from thought's 
o'ershadowing cloud. 



n 



O deep blue eyes ! O voice as woman's 
low! 

O firm white hand, with kindliest warmth 
aglow ! 100 

O manly form, and frank, sweet, courte- 
ous mien, 

Reflex of museful days and nights serene ! 

Still are ye near me, vivid, actual still, 
Here in vay lonely fastness on the hill ; 
Nor can ye wane till cold my life-blood 

flows. 
And fancy fades in feeling's last repose. 

What! snowing yet? The landscape 

waxes pale ; 
Round the mute heaven there hangs a 

quivering veil, 
Through whose frail woof like silent 

shuttles go 
The glancing glamours of the glittering 

snow. "o 

Yes, falling still, while fond remem- 
brance stirs 

In these wan-faced, unwonted messengers. 

Dumb storm ! outpour your arctic heart's 
desire ! 

Your flakes to me seem flushed with fairy 
fire! 



A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD 
LINGER YET 

A little while (my life is almost set!) 
I fain would pause along the downward 

way. 
Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, 
While, Sweet ! our eyes with tender tears 

are wet ; 
A little hour I fain would linger yet. 

A little while I fain would linger yet, 
All for love's sake, for love that can- 
not tire; 
Though fervid youth be dead, with 
youth's desire, 
And hope has faded to a vague regret, 
A little while I fain would linger yet. ^° 

A little while I fain would linger here : 
Behold ! who knows what strange, mys- 
terious bars 
'Twixt souls that love, may rise in other 
stars ? 
Nor can love deem the face of death is 

fair ; 
A little while I still would linger here. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 



365 



A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, 
Hand locked in hand, the loyal heart 

to heart; 
(O pitying Christ! those woeful words, 
"We part!") 
So ere the darkness fall, the light be 

past, 
A little while I fain would hold thee 
fast. 20 

A little while, when night and twilight 

meet; 
Behind our broken years, before the 

deep 
Weird wonder of the last unfathomed 

sleep. 
A little while I still would clasp thee, 

Sweet ; 
A little while, when night and twilight 

meet. 

A little while I fain would linger here; 
Behold ! who knows what soul-dividing 

bars 
Earth's faithful loves may part in other 
stars? 
Nor can love deem the face of death is 

fair; 
A little while I still would linger here. 3° 



IN HARBOR 

I think it is over, over, 

I think it is over at last, 
Voices of foeman and lover. 

The sweet and the bitter have passed : 



Life, like a tempest of ocean 

Hath outblown its ultimate blast; 
There's but a faint sobbing sea-ward 
While the calm of the tide deepens lee- 
ward. 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the river. 
Those lights in the harbor at last, " 
The heavenly harbor at last ! 

I feel it is over, over ! 

For the winds and the waters surcease; 
Ah ! — few were the days of the rover 

That smiled in the beauty of peace! 
And distant and dim was the omen 

That hinted redress or release : 
From the ravage of life, and its riot 
What marvel I yearn for the quiet 20 

Which bides in the harbor at last? 
For the lights with their welcoming 

quiver 
That throbbed through the sanctified river 

Which girdles the harbor at last, 

This heavenly harbor at last? 

I know it is over, over, 

I know it is over at last ! 
Down sail ! the sheathed anchor uncover. 

For the stress of the voyage has passed : 
Life, like a tempest of ocean, 30 

Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast; 
There's but a faint sobbing sea-ward; 
While the calm of the tide deepens lee- 
ward; 
And behold ! like the welcoming quiver 
Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the river, 

Those lights in the harbor at last. 

The heavenly harbor at last ! 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

(1807-1882) 



WOODS IN WINTER 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows the 
gale. 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert 
woods, 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, i" 

And summer winds the stillness broke. 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute 
springs 

Pour out the river's gradual tide. 
Shrilly the skaters iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene. 
When birds sang out their mellow lay. 

And winds were soft, and woods were 

green, 19 

And the song ceased not with the day ! 

But still wild music is abroad. 

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song; 

I hear it in the opening year, 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 

United States Literary Gazette, Feb. 1, 
1825. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK 

On sunny slope and beechen swell. 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown. 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory that the wood receives, 
At sunset- in its golden leaves. 



Far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 

Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone; 10 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in hi,': gri.ve. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 20 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 30 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame. 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief. 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress. 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless. 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 4° 

He came; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 

1825. 

Atlantic Souvenir for 1827. 

m 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



367 



A PSALM OF LIFE 

What the Heart of the Young Man Said 
to the Psalmist. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream! — 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest. 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
Is our destined end or way; lo 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife! 20 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 3" 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing. 

Learn to labor and to wait. 
1838. 

Knickerbocker Magazine, Oct., 1838. 

PRELUDE 1 

Pleasant it was, when woods were green 

And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene. 
Where, the long drooping boughs be- 
tween, 

1 Written as introduction to the "Voices of 
tlie Night" collected and published in 1839. 



Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above. 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In an unbroken roof of leaves, '<> 

Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound; 

A slumberous sound, a sound that brings 
The feelings of a dream, 2° 

As of innumerable wings 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
F'aint the hollow murmur rings 
O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die. 

Bright visions, came to me. 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea; 3° 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled; 
Old legends of the monkish page. 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age. 

And chronicles of eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 39 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams. 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride, 

When nestling buds unfold their wings, 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide, 

The green trees whispered low and mild; 

It was a sound of joy! so 

They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled. 

As if I were a boy; 



368 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And ever whispered, mild and low, 
"Come, be a child once more !" 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow; 

Oh, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar, — 60 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood. 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue. 

Of tall and sombrous pines; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 69 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapor soft and blue. 

In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain. 

Like a fast-falling shower, 
The dreams of youth came back again, — 
Low lispings of the summer rain. 
Dropping on the ripened grain. 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! ^f* 

And distant voices seemed to say, 
"It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

"The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise; 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise; 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 9° 

"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 
Not mountains capped with snow. 

Nor forests sounding like the sea. 

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly. 

Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 

"There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between. 
And whosoever looks therein i°° 

Sees the heavens all black with sin, 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

"Athwart the swinging branches cast. 

Soft rays of sunshine pour; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; 
Pallid lips say, 'It is past! 

We can return no more !' 



"Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! J'" 

All forms of sorrow and delight. 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 

Knickerbocker Magazine, May, 1839. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat. 

He earns whate'er he can, '° 

And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door ; 20 

They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar. 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 3° 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise! 
He needs must think of her once more 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 4° 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



369 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

1839. 

Knickerbocker Magazine, Nov., 1840. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter. 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day. 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn 
buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
His pipe was in his mouth, lo 

And he watched how the veering flaw did 
blow 
The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

"I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see !" 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his 
pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted 
steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither ! come hither ! my little 
daughter. 

And do not tremble so; 3° 

For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 



He wrapped her warm in his seaman's 
coat 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar. 

And bound her to the mast. 

"O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

Oh say, what may it be?" 
" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !" 

And he steered for the open sea. 40 

"O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh say, what may it be?" 
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea !" 

"O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

Oh say, what may it be?" 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 
With his face turned to the skies, 5° 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming 
snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and 
prayed 
That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the 
wave, 
On the 'Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear. 

Through the whistling sleet and snow. 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 6° 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 7o 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 



370 



AMERICAN POETRY 



At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 80 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea- 
weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this. 
On the reef of Norman's Woe! 

1839. 

The Boston Book for 1841. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMORS 

Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me? 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 

Pale flashes seemed to rise, i" 

As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; 
And, Hke the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

"I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee I 20 

Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse; 

For this I sought thee. 

"Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the gerfalcon; 
And, with my skates fast-bound. 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 3° 

That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

* A full account of the finding of the skeleton 
is given in the American Monthly Magazine of 
January, 1836. 



"Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear. 
While from mj- path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's bark. 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

"But when I older grew. 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

"Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing. 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

"Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine. 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid. 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

"Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

"While the brown ale he quaflfed. 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly, 



80 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



371 



So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

"She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 5° 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why. did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded? 

"Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me,. 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! ^°° 

When on the white sea-strand. 
Waving his armed hand. 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

"Then launched they to the blast. 
Bent like a reed each mast. 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, "" 

So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

"And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, ^ 
'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, 

'Death without quarter!' 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water! 120 

"As with his wings aslant. 
Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden,— 
So toward the open main. 
Beating to sea again. 
Through the wild hurricane. 

Bore I the maiden. 

"Three weeks we westward bore. 

And when the storm was o'er, 130 

Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 1 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking seaward. 

^The "Round Tower" at Newport, popularly 
supposed to have been built by the Northmen. 



"There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; ^4o 

Death closed her mild blue eyes. 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

"Still grew my bosom then. 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men. 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here. 
Clad in my warlike gear, ^so 

Fell I upon my spear. 

Oh, death was gratefulj 

"Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars. 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"^ 

Thus the tale ended. 160 

1840. 

Knickerbocker Magazine, Jan., 1841. 



EXCELSIOR 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed, 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion run 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 

Excelsior ! i<» 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; 
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 

^ In Scandinavia this is the customary saluta- 
tion when drinking a health. I have slightly 
changed the orthography of the word [skaal\ in 
in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 
(Author's Note.) 



372 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 

Excelsior ! 20 

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 

Excelsior ! 30 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 

Excelsior ! 4° 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 

1841. "Ballads and Other Poems," 1841. 



SERENADE 

From "Tlie Spanish Student." 

Stars of the summer night! 

Far in yon azure deeps. 
Hide, hide your golden light! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer night! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps I 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 



Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 



1840. 



Graham's Magadne, Sept., 1842. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished 

arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem 

pealing 

Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and 
dreary. 
When the death-angel touches those 
swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful sympho- 
nies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus. 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 'o 

Which, through the ages that have gone 
before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer, 
Through Cimbric forest roars the 
Norseman's song. 
And loud, amid the universal clamor, 
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar 
gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dread- 
ful din. 
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of ser- 
pent's skin; 20 

The tumult of each sacked and burning 
village ; Ai 

The shout that every prayer for mercy • 
drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; 
The wail of famine in beleaguered 
towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 
asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing 
blade ; 
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder 
The diapason of the cannonade. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



373 



Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 

With such accursed instruments as 

these, 30 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 

voices, 

And jarrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world 
with terror. 
Were half the wealth bestowed on 
camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from 
error, 
There were no need of arsenals or forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name ab- 
horred! 
And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its fore- 
head 
Would wear forevermore the curse of 
Cain ! 40 

Down the dark future, through long gen- 
erations. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and 
then cease; 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibra- 
tions, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ 
say, "Peace !" 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen 
portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes 
the skies ! 
But beautiful as songs of the immortals. 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

1844. Graham's Magazine, April, 1844. 



THE DAY IS DONEi 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feehng of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 10 

And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 

* Longfellow wrote this poem as a proem to a 
volume of selections from minor poets, called 
The Waif, which he edited. 



Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling. 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 

Not from the bards sublime. 
Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time. 20 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart. 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 

Who, through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 2'-^ 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 4" 

And the night shall be filled with music. 
And the cares, that infest the day. 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

1844. Proem to "The Waif," 1844. 



THE BRIDGE 

I stood on the bridge at midnight. 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city. 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 

Of that lovely night in June, ' 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 

Gleamed redder than the moon. 



374 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay. 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide. 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. ^o 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh how often. 
In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, oh how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 3o 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care. 

And the "burden laid upon me 
Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 4° 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers. 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men. 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow. 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, so 

The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow! 

And forever and forever. 

As long as the river flows, _ 
As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear. 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. ^ 

1845. In "Poems," 1845. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 

Somewhat back from the village street 

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; 

And from its station in the hall 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands '• 

From its case of massive oak. 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 2° 

Along the ceiling, along the floor. 

And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 3° 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast. 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 4o 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming 

strayed ; 
O precious hours ! O golden prime. 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding 
night ; 5o 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



375 



There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?" 
As in the days long since gone by, 6i 

The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever!" 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care. 

And death, and time shall disappear, — 

Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologe of Eternity 

Sayeth this incessantly, — 7o 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

1845. In "The Belfry of Bruges," 1845. 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG 

I shot an arrow into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For who has sight so keen and strong. 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak, 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; '" 

And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

1845. In "The Belfry of Bruges," 1845. 



DANTE 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms 

of gloom. 
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic 

eyes. 
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul 

arise. 
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
Thy sacred song is like the trump of 

doom; 



Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
What soft compassion glows; as in the 

skies 
The tender stars their clouded lamps re- 
lume! 
Methinks I see thee stand with pallid 

cheeks 
By Era Hilario in his diocese, i° 

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks. 
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's 

decrease; 
And, as he asks what there the stranger 

seeks, 
Thy voice along the cloister whispers 
"Peace !" 

1843? In "The Belfry of Bruges," 1845. 

SEAWEED 

When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges. 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 

Of sunken ledges. 
In some far-off, bright Azore; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, i" 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting _ ^o 

Currents of the restless main; 

Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 
Of sandy beaches. 

All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, erelong 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness. 
Floats some fragment of a song : 3° 

From the far-ofif isles enchanted. 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ;_ 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth; 



276 



AMERICAN POETRY 



From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 

That forever 
Wrestle with the tides of Fate; 39 

From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 
1844. 1845. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall. 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 

And everywhere ^° 

A warm, soft vapor fills the air. 
And distant sounds seem near; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night. 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet. 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. ^ 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

Oh, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 3° 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and 
wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 



This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 
With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 4° 

1846. The Opal for 1847. 



From EVANGELINE 
A Tale of Acadie 

This is the forest primeval. The mur- 
muring pines and the hemlocks. 

Bearded with moss, and in garments 
green, indistinct in the twilight, 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad 
and prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that 
rest on their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep- 
voiced neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate an- 
swers the wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval; but where 
are the hearts that beneath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the 
woodland the voice of the huntsman? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the 
home of Acadian farmers, — 

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that 
water the woodlands, ^o 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but re- 
flecting an image of heaven? 

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the 
farmers forever departed ! 

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the 
mighty blasts of October 

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and 
sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. 

Naught but tradition remains of the beau- 
tiful village of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, 

and endures, and is patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength 

of woman's devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition, still sung 

by the pines of the forest; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home 

of the happy., ^9 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



377 



Part the First 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the 

village of Grand Pre. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air 

the Basin of Minas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering 

shadows, were riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, 

and clamorous labor 
Knocked with its hundred hands at the 

golden gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the 

farms and neighboring hamlets. 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe 

Acadian peasants. 
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund 

laugh from the young folk 
Made the bright air brighter, as up from 

the numerous meadows. 
Where no path could be seen but the track 

of wheels in the greensward, lo 

Group after group appeared, and joined, 

or passed on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds 

of labor were silenced. 
Thronged were the streets with people; 

and noisy groups at the house-doors 
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and 

gossipped together. 
Every house was an inn, where all were 

welcomed and feasted; 
For with this simple people, who lived like 

brothers together. 
All things were held in common, and what 

one had was another's. 
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality 

seemed more abundant : 
For Evangeline stood among the guests 

of her father; 
Bright was her face with smiles, and 

words of welcome and gladness ^o 
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed 

the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air 

of the orchard, 
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the 

feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the 

priest and the notary seated; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil 

the blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the 

cider-press and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the 

gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. 



Shadow and light from the leaves alter- 
nately played on his snow-white 
Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the 

jolly face of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes 

are blown from the embers. 30 

Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant 

sound of his fiddle. 
Tons les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le 

Carillon de Dunquerque, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time 

to the music. 
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of 

the dizzying dances 
Under the orchard-trees and down the 

path to the meadows ; 
Old folk and young together, and children 

mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, 

Benedict's daughter ! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son 

of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! 

with a summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over 

the meadows a drum beat. 4° 

Thronged erelong was the church with 

men. Without, in the churchyard. 
Waited the women. They stood by the 

graves, and hung on the headstones 
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens 

fresh from the forest. 
Then came the guard from the ships, and 

marching proudly among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and 

dissonant clangor 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums 

from ceiling and casement, — - 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the 

ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited 

the will of the soldiers. 
Then uprose their commander, and spake 

from the steps of the altar. 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, 

the royal commission. 5° 

"You are convened this day," he said, "by 

his Majesty's orders. 
Clement and kind has he been ; but how 

you have answered his kindness. 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my nat- 
ural make and my temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I 

know must be grievous. 
Yet must I bovv^ and obey, and deliver the 

will of our monarch; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwell- 
ings, and cattle of all kinds 



378 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Forfeited be to the crown; and that you 

yourselves from this province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant 

you may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and 

peaceable people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you; for such is 

his Majesty's pleasure!" 60 

As, when the air is serene in sultry sol- 
stice of summer, 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly 

sling of the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field 

and shatters his windows, 
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground 

with thatch from the house-roofs, 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break 

their enclosures; 
So on the hearts of the people descended 

the words of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless 

wonder, and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow 

and anger, 
And, by one impulse moved, they madly 

rushed to the door-way. 
Vain was the hope of escape; and cries 

and fierce imprecations 70 

Rang through the house of prayer; and 

high o'er the heads of the others 
Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of 

Basil the blacksmith. 
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the 

billows. 
Flushed was his face and distorted with 

passion; and wildly he shouted, — 
"Down with the tyrants of England! we 

never have sworn them allegiance ! 
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize 

on our homes and our harvests !" 
More he fain would have said, but the 

merciless hand of a soldier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged 

him down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of 

angry contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and 

Father Felician 80 

Entered, with serious mien, and ascended 

the steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture 

he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng; and thus he 

spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn; in ac- 
cents measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, 

distinctly the clock strikes. 



"What is this that ye do, my children? 
what madness has seized you? 

Forty years of my life have I labored 
among you, and taught you, 

Not in word alone, but in deed, to love 
one another ! 

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils 
and prayers and privations? 

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of 
love and forgiveness? 9° 

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, 
and would you profane it 

Thus with violent deeds and hearts over- 
flowing with hatred? 

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his 
cross is gazing upon you ! 

See! in those sorrowful eyes what meek- 
ness and holy compassion ! 

Hark! how those lips still repeat the 
prayer, 'O Father, forgive them !' 

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when 
the wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, 
forgive them !' " 

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep 
in the hearts of his people 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition suc- 
ceeded the passionate outbreak. 

While they repeated his prayer, and said, 
"O Father, forgive them!" 100 

Then came the evening service. The 

tapers gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the 

priest, and the people responded. 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; 

and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and 

their souls, with devotion translated, 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah 

ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the 
tidings of ill, and on all sides 

Wandered, wailing, from house to house 
the women and children. 

Long at her father's door Evangeline 
stood, with her right hand 

Shielding her eyes from the level rays of 
the sun, that, descending. 

Lighted the village street with mysterious 
splendor, and roofed each "o 

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and 
emblazoned its windows. 

Long within had been spread the snow- 
white cloth on the table; 

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the 
honey fragrant with wild-flowers; 



I 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



379 



There stood the tankard of ale, and the 
cheese fresh brought from the dairy, 

And, at the head of the board, the great 
arm-chair of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's 
door, as the sunset 

Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the 
broad ambrosial meadows. 

Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow 
had fallen. 

And from the fields of her soul a fra- 
grance celestial ascended, — 

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and 
forgiveness, and patience ! 120 

. Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered 
into the village. 

Cheering with looks and words the mourn- 
ful hearts of the women, 

As o'er the darkening fields with linger- 
ing steps they departed, 

Urged by their household cares, and the 
weary feet of their children. 

Down sank the great red sun, and in 
golden, glimmering vapors 

Veiled the light of his face, like the 
Prophet descending from Sinai. 

Sweetly over the village the bell of the 
Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the 
church Evangeline lingered. 

All was silent within; and in vain at the 
door and the windows 

Stood she, and listened and looked, till, 
overcome by emotion, 130 

"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremu- 
lous voice; but no answer 

Came from the graves of the dead, nor 
the gloomier grave of the living. 

Slowly at length she returned to the 
tenantless house of her father. 

Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the 
board was the supper untasted. 

Empty and drear was each room, and 
haunted with phantoms of terror. 

Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the 
floor of her chamber. 

In the dead' of the night she heard the 
disconsolate rain fall 

Loud on the withered leaves of the syca- 
more-tree by the window. 

Keenly the lightning flashed; and the 
voice of the echoing thunder 

Told her that God was in heaven, and 
governed the world He created ! 140 

Then she remembered the tale she had 
heard of the justice of Heaven ; 

Soothed was her troubled soul, and she 
peacefully slumbered till morning. 



Part the Second 



II 



It was the month of May. Far down the 
Beautiful River, 

Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth 
of the Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and 
swift Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed 
by Acadian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, 
from the shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now 
floating together, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief 
and a common misfortune; 

Men and women and children, who, guid- 
ed by hope or by hearsay. 

Sought for their kith and their kin among 
the few-acred farmers 

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of 
fair Opelousas. 1° 

With them Evangeline went, and her 
guide, the Father Fehcian. 

Onward o'er sunken sands, 'through a wil- 
derness sombre with forests. 

Day after day they glided down the tur- 
bulent river; 

Night after night, by their blazing fires, 
encamped on its borders. 

Now through rushing chutes, among green 
islands, where plumelike 

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, 
they swept with the current, 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where 
silvery sand-bars 

Lay in the stream, and along the wim- 
pling waves of their margin, 

Shining with snow-white plumes, large 
flocks of pelicans waded. 

Level the landscape grew, and along the 
shores of the river, 20 

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of 
luxuriant gardens. 

Stood the houses of planters, with negro- 
cabins and dove-cots. 

They were approaching the region where 
reigns perpetual summer. 

Where through the Golden Coast, and 
groves of orange and citron. 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away 
to the eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course; 
and entering the Bayou of Plaque- 
mine, 

Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and 
devious waters, 



380 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Which, Hke a network of steel, extended 
in every direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tene- 
brous boughs of the cypress 

Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses 
in mid-air 30 

Waved Hke banners that hang on the walls 
of ancient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and un- 
broken, save by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees 
returning at sunset, 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon 
with demoniac laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced 
and gleamed on the water. 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and 
cedar sustaining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell 
as through chinks in a ruin. 

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange 
were all things around them; 

And o'er their spirits there came a feel- 
ing of wonder and sadness, — 

Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and 
that cannot be compassed. 4° 

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the 
turf of the prairies, 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of 
the shrinking mimosa, 

So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad 
forebodings of evil. 

Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the 
stroke of doom has attained it. 

But Evangeline's heart was sustained by 
a vision, that faintly 

Floated before her eyes, and beckoned 
her on through the moonlight. 

It was the thought of her brain that as- 
sumed the shape of a phantom 

Through those shadowy aisles had Ga- 
briel wandered before her. 

And every stroke of the oar now brought 
him nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place, at the prow of the 

boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 5° 
And, as a signal sound, if others like 

them peradventure 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight 

streams, blew a blast on his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and 

corridors leafy the blast rang. 
Breaking the seal of silence, and giving 

tongues to the forest. 
Soundless above them the banners of moss 

just stirred to the music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in 

the distance. 



Over the watery floor, and beneath the 

reverberant branches ; 
But not a voice replied; no answer came 

from, the darkness; 
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a 

sense of pain was the silence. 
Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen 

rowed through the midnight, 60 

Silent at times, then singing familiar Can- 
adian boat-songs. 
Such as they sang of old on their own 

Acadian rivers. 
While through the night were heard the 

mysterious sounds of the desert. 
Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind 

in the forest. 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and 

the roar of the grim alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged 
from the shades; and before them 

Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the 
Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the 
slight undulations 

Made by the passing oars, and, resplen- 
dent in beauty, the lotus 7° 

Lifted her golden crown above the heads 
of the boatmen. 

Faint was the air with the odorous breath 
of magnoHa blossoms. 

And with the heat of noon; and number- 
less sylvan islands, 

Fragrant and thickly embowered with 
blossoming hedges of roses, 

Near to whose shores they glided along, 
invited to slumber. 

Soon by the fairest of these their weary 
oars were suspended. 

Under the boughs of Wachita willows, 
that grew by the margin. 

Safely their boat was moored; and scat- 
tered about on the greensward. 

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary 
travellers slumbered. 

Over them vast and high extended the 
cope of a cedar. 

Swinging from its great arms, the trum- 
pet-flower and the grapevine ^o 

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the 
ladder of Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels as- 
cending, descending. 

Were the swift humming-birds, that flit- 
ted from blossom to blossom. 

Such was the vision EvangeHne saw as 
she slumbered beneath it. 

Filled was her heart with love, and the 
dawn of an opening heaven 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



381 



Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory 
of regions celestial. 

Nearer, and ever nearer, among the 

numberless islands. 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away 

o'er the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms 

of hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the 

land of the bison and beaver. 9° 

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance 

thoughtful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed 

his brow, and a sadness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face 

was legibly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, 

unhappy and restless, 
Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of 

self and of sorrow. 
Swiftly they glided along, close under the 

lee of the island. 
But by the opposite bank, and behind a 

screen of palmettos, 
So that they saw not the boat, where it 

lay concealed in the willows ; 
Ail undisturbed by the dash of their oars, 

and unseen, were the sleepers. 
Angel of God was there none to awaken 

the slumbering maiden. loo 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade 

of a cloud on the prairie. 
After the sound of their oars on ihe 

tholes had died in the distance, 
As from a magic trance the sleepers 

awoke, and the maiden 
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, 

"O Father Felician ! 
Something says in my heart that near me 

Gabriel wanders. 
Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague 

superstition? 
Or has an angel passed, and revealed the 

truth to my spirit?" 
Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for 

my credulous fancy ! 
Unto ears like thine such words as these 

have no meaning." 
But made answer the reverend man, and 

he smiled as he answered, — "o 

"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor 

are they to me without meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still; and the word 

that floats on the surface 
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where 

the anchor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what 

the world calls illusions. 



Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far 

away to the southward, 
On the banks of the Teche, are the towns 

of St. Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall be 

given again to her bridegroom. 
There the long-absent pastor regain his 

flock and his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and 

forests of fruit-trees; 
Under the feet a garden of flowers, and 

the bluest of heavens ^^° 

Bending above, and resting its dome on 

the walls of the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it the 

Eden of Louisiana!" 

With these words of cheer they arose 
and continued their journey. 

Softly the evening came. The sun from 
the western horizon 

Like a magician extended his golden wand 
o'er the landscape; 

Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and wa- 
ter and forest 

Seemed all on fire at the touch, and 
melted and mingled together. 

Hanging between two skies, a cloud with 
edges of silver. 

Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, 
on the motionless water. 

Filled was Evangeline's heart with inex- 
pressible sweetness. 13° 

Touched by the magic spell, the sacred 
fountains of feeling 

Glowed with the light of love, as the skies 
and waters around her. 

Then from a neighboring thicket the 
mocking-bird, wildest of singers. 

Swinging aloft on a willow spray that 
hung o'er the water, 

Shook from his little throat such floods 
of delirious music. 

That the whole air and the woods and the 
waves seemed silent to listen. 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad : 
then soaring to madness 

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel 
of frenzied Bacchantes. 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrow- 
ful, low lamentation ; 

Till, having gathered them all, he flung 
them abroad in derision. 

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind 
through the tree-tops '40 

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal 
shower on the branches. 

With such a prelude as this, and hearts 
that throbbed with emotion, 



382 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Slowly they entered the Teche, where it 

flows through the green Opelousas, 
And, through the amber air, above the 

crest of the woodland, 
Saw the column of smoke that arose from 

a neighboring dwelling; — 
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the 

distant lowing of cattle. 

CONCLUSION 

Still stands the forest primeval; but far 
away from its shadow, 

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the 
lovers are sleeping. 

Under the humble walls of the little Cath- 
olic churchyard, 

In the heart of the city, they lie, un- 
known and unnoticed. ^5° 

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and 
flowing beside them. 

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where 
theirs are at rest and forever, 

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs 
no longer are busy. 

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs 
have ceased from their labors. 

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs 
have completed their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but 
under the shade of its branches 

Dwells another race, with other customs 
and language. 

Only along the shore of the mournful and 
misty Atlantic 

Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose 
fathers from exile 

Wandered back to their native land to die 
in its bosom. '^° 

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the 
loom are still busy ; 

Maidens still wear their Norman caps and 
their kirtles of homespun. 

And by the evening fire repeat Evange- 
line's story. 

While from its rocky caverns the deep- 
voiced, neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate an- 
swers the wail of the forest. 



1845-47. 



Separately published 1847. 



From' THE BUILDING OF THE 
SHIP 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years, 



Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel. 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 
In what a forge and what a heat ^° 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 
'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea I 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our 
tears, 20 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee! 

In "The Seaside and The Fireside," 1849. 



TWILIGHT 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light. 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window. 
As if those childish eyes ^° 

Were looking into the darkness 
To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro. 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean. 
And the night-wind, bleak and wild. 

As they beat at the crazy casement. 
Tell to that little child? 20 

And why do the roaring ocean. 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak. 

As they beat at the heart of the mother 
Drive the color from her cheek? 

In "The Seaside and The Fireside," 1849. 



HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 



383 



RESIGNATION' 

There is no flock, however watched and 
tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children cry- 
ing. 
Will not be comforted! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, i° 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is 
transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian. 

Whose portal we call Death. 20 

She is not dead, — the child of our affec- 
tion, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor pro- 
tection. 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclu- 
sion. 
By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pol- 
lution, 
She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air; 3° 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep un- 
broken 
The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken. 
May reach her where she lives. 

^Written in the autumn of 1848 after the 
death of Longfellow's little daughter Fanny. 



Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child; 4o 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's man- 
sion. 
Clothed with celestial grace; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expan- 
sion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with 
emotion 
And anguish long suppressed. 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean. 
That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
ing 

We may not wholly stay; so 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 
1848. 
In "The Seaside and The Fireside," 1849. 



From THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 



HIAWATHA S CHILDHCDD 

Downward through the evening twilight, 
In the days that are forgotten. 
In the unremembered ages, 
From the full moon fell Nokomis, 
Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 
She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her women, 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, 
When her rival the rejected, 
Full of jealousy and hatred, ^° 

Cut the leafy swing asunder, 
Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines. 
And Nokomis fell affrighted 
Downward through the evening twilight. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
On the prairie full of blossoms. 
"See ! a star falls !" said the people ; 
"From the sky a star is falling !" 

There among the ferns and mosses. 
There among the prairie lilies, 20 

On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
In the moonlight and the starlight, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her. name Wenonah, 



384 



AMERICAN POETRY 



As the first-born of her daughters. 

And the daughter of Nokomis 

Grew up hke the prairie liHes, 

Grew a tall and slender maiden, 

With the beauty of the moonlight, 

With the beauty of the starlight. 3° 

And Nokomis warned her often, 
Saying oft, and oft repeating, 
"Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West- Wind, Mudjekeewis; 
Listen not to what he tells you; 
Lie not down upon the meadow, 
Stoop not down among the lilies. 
Lest the West-Wind come and harm 
you !" 

But she heeded not the warning, 
Heeded not those words of wisdom, 4° 
And the West-Wind came at evening, 
Walking lightly o'er the prairie. 
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses, 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 
Lying there among the lilies, 
Wooed her with his words of sweetness, 
Wooed her with his soft caresses, 
Till she bore a son in sorrow. 
Bore a son of love and sorrow. 5° 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 
Thus was born the child of wonder; 
But the daughter of Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's gentle mother, 
In her anguish died deserted 
By the West-Wind, false and faithless. 
By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis ; 
"Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, ^° 
"Oh that I were dead, as thou art! 
No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin !" 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest. 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them; 7° 
Bright before it beat the water, 
Beat the clear and sunny water. 
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. _ 

There the wrinkled old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 
Rocked him in his linden cradle, 
Bedded soft in moss and rushes. 
Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
"Hush ! the Naked Bear will hear thee !" 
Lulled him into slumber, singing, 8i 

"Ewa-yea I my little owlet ! 



Who is this, that lights the wigwam? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam? 
Ewa-yea I my little owlet !" 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, 9° 
Warriors with their plumes and war- 
clubs, 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter; 
Showed the broad white road in heaven. 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows. 
Running straight across the heavens. 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees. 
Heard the lapping of the waters, ^oi 

Sounds of music, words of wonder; 
"Minne-wawa !" said the pine-trees, 
"Mudway-aushka !" said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes. 
And he sang the song of children. 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "o 
"Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect. 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature. 
Light me with your little candle. 
Ere upon my bed I lay me. 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids !" 

Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it. 
Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" ^-° 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
"Once a warrior, very angry, 
Seized his grandmother, and threw her 
Up into the sky at midnight ; 
Right against the moon he threw her ; 
'Tis her body that you see there." 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow. 
Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : 130 
" 'Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; 
All the wild-flowers of the forest. 
All the lilies of the prairie, 
When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us." 

When he heard the owls at midnight. 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
"What is that?" he cried in terror, 
"What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : "4° 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



385 



"That is but the owl and owlet, 
Talking in their native language, 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets. 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." 'So 

Of all beasts he learned the language. 
Learned their names and 1 their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges. 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns. 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly. 
Why the rabbit was so timid. 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them ^'Hiawatha's Brothers." 

Then lagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller, i6o 

He the traveller and the talker. 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Made a bow for Hiawatha; 
From a branch of ash he made it. 
From an oak-bough made the arrows. 
Tipped with flint, and winged with feath- 
ers. 
And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha : 
"Go, my son, into the forest. 
Where the red deer herd together, 170 
Kill for us a famous roebuck. 
Kill for us a deer with antlers !" 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and arrows ; 
And the birds sang round him, o'er him, 
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha !" 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha !" iS° 

Up the oak-tree, close beside him. 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
In and out among the branches. 
Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, 
Laughed, and said between his laughing, 
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Half in fear and half in frolic, 190 

Saying to the little hunter, 
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha !" 

But he heeded not, nor heard them, 
For his thoughts were with the red deer; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened. 
Leading downward to the river. 
To the ford across the river. 
An ' as one in slumber walked he. 



Hidden in the alder-bushes. 
There he waited till the deer came, 200 
Till he saw two antlers lifted. 
Saw two eyes look from the thicket, 
Saw two nostrils point to windward. 
And a deer came down the pathway, 
Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered. 
Trembled like the leaves above him, 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated. 
As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 210 

Hiawatha aimed an arrow; 
Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, 
But the wary roebuck started, 
Stamped with all his hoofs together, 
Listened with one foot uplifted, 
Leaped as if to meet the arrow; 
Ah ! the singing, fatal arrow. 
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him ! 

Dead he lay there in the forest, 220 

By the ford across the river; 
Beat his timid heart no longer, 
But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exulted, 
As he bore the red deer homeward. 
And lagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applauses. 

From the red deer's hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis 230 
Made a banquet to his honor. 
All the village came and feasted, 
All the guests praised Hiawatha, 
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha ! 
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee ! 



HIAWATHA S FASTING 

You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Prayed and fasted in the forest, 
Not for greater skill in hunting, 
■ Not for greater craft in fishing, 
Not for triumphs in the battle. 
And renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people. 
For advantage of the nations. 

First he built a lodge for fasting. 
Built a wigwam in the forest, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, 
In the Moon of Leaves he built it, 
And, with dreams and visions many. 
Seven whole days and nights he fasted. 
On the first day of his fasting 



386 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Through the leaf)' woods he wandered; 
Saw the deer start from the thicket, 
Saw the rabbit in his burrow, 
Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, 20 
Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Rattling in his hoard of acorns, 
Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 
Building nests among the pine-trees, 
And in liocks the wild-goose, Wawa, 
Fhing to the fen-lands northward. 
Whirring, wailing" far above him. 
"Master of Life !" he cried, desponding, 
"Must our hves depend on these things?" 

On the next day of his fasting 3° 

By the river's brink he wandered, 
Through the Muskoday, the meadow. 
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 
And the strawberry, Odahmin, 
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 
And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 
Trailing o'er the alder-branches. 
Filling all the air with fragrance ! 
"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, 4° 
"Must our lives depend on these things?" 

On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered. 
By the still, transparent water ; 
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping. 
Scattering drops like beads of wampum. 
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
And the herring, Okahahwis, 5° 

And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish ! 
"Master of Life !" he cried, desponding,^ 
"Must our lives depend on these things?" 

On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted; 
From his couch of leaves and branches 
Gazing with half-open eyelids. 
Full of shadowy dreams and visions. 
On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 
On the gleaming of the water, 60 

On the splendor of the sunset. 

And he saw a youth approaching. 
Dressed in garments green and yellow. 
Coming through the purple twilight. 
Through the splendor of the sunset; 
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead. 
And his hair was soft and golden. 

Standing at the open doorway. 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compassion 7° 

On his wasted form and features. 
And, in accents like the sighing 
Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops. 
Said he, "O my Hiawatha ! 
All your prayers are heard in heaven. 



For )'ou pray not like the others; 

Not for greater skill in hunting, 

Not for greater craft in fishing, 

Not for triumph in the battle, 

Nor renown among the warriors, 80 

But for profit of the people. 

For advantage of the nations. 

"From the Master of Life descending, 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
Come to warn you and instruct you, 
How by struggle and by labor 
You shall gain what you have prayed for. 
Rise up from your bed of branches, 
Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me !" 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 90 

Started from his bed of branches. 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom. 
Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, ^°° 

And the more they strove and struggled. 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha; 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Gave a cry of lamentation. 
Gave a scream of pain and famine. 

" 'Tis enough !" then said Mondamin, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 
"But to-morrow, when the sun sets, ^^° 
I will come again to try you." 
And he vanished, and was seen not; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not. 
Only saw that he had vanished, 
Leaving him alone and fainting. 
With the misty lake below him. 
And the reefing stars above him. 

On the morrow and the next day, '^o 
When the sun through heaven descending. 
Like a red and burning cinder 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit, 
Fell into the western waters. 
Came Mondamin for the trial. 
For the strife with Hiawatha; 
Came as silent as the dew comes, 
From the empty air appearing, 
Into empty air returning. 
Taking shape when earth it touches, "30 
But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



387 



Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 140 
In his garments green and yellow; 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, "O Hiawatha ! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
He will give to you the triumph !" 'So 

Then he smiled, and said : "To-morrow 
Is the last day of your conflict. 
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and o'ercome me; 
Make a bed for me to lie in, 
Where the rain may fall upon me. 
Where the sun may come and warm me ; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow. 
Strip this nodding plumage from me. 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 160 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

"Let no hand disturb my slumber. 
Let no weed nor worm molest me. 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven. 
Come to haunt me and molest me. 
Only come yourself to watch me. 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And thus saying, he departed; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, ^7° 

But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining. 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him. 
Talking to the darksome forest; 
Heard the sighing of the branches. 
As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind. 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 180 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers : 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting. 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not. 
Only said to her, "Nokomis, 19° 

Wait until the sun is setting. 
Till the darkness falls around us. 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 



Crying from the desolate marshes, 
Tells us that the day is ended." 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 200 

For the coming of Mondamin, 
Till the shadows, pointing eastward. 
Lengthened over field arid forest. 
Till the sun dropped from the heaven, 
Floating on the waters westward. 
As a red leaf in the Autumn 
F'alls and floats upon the water, 
Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses, 210 

With his garments green and yellow. 
With his long and glossy plumage. 
Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
And as one in slumber walking. 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted. 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 

Round about him spun the landscape, 
Sky and forest reeled together. 
And his strong heart leaped within him, 
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 220 
Tn a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon. 
And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion, 
Palpitating with the struggle; 230 

And before him breathless, lifeless. 
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered. 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded. 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made_ it 
Soft and loose and light above him; 240 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands. 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin; 250 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 



388 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, 
Where his scattered phimes and garments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it ; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it. 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects. 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee,' the king of ravens. 261 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth sliot slowly upward. 
Then another and another, 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it. 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin ! 270 

Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin !" 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And lagoo, the great boaster. 
Showed them where the maize was grow- 
ing. 
Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph, 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food forever. 

And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow. 
And the soft and juicy kernels -Si 

Grew like wampum hard and yellow. 
Then the ripened ears he gathered. 
Stripped the withered husks from off 

them. 
As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 



HIAWATHA S WOOING 

"As unto the bow the cord is. 

So unto the man is woman ; 

Though she bends him, she obeys him, 

Though she draws him, yet she follows ; 

Useless each without the other !" 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered. 
Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing. 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, ^° 

Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

"Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis; 
"Go not eastward, go not westward, 



For a stranger, whom we know not ! 

Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 

Is a neighbor's homely daughter. 

Like the starlight or the moonlight 

Is the handsomest of strangers !" 20 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : "Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight. 
But I like the starlight better. 
Better do I like the moonlight !" 

Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
"Bring not here an idle maiden. 
Bring not here a useless woman. 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; "' 3° 

Bring a wife with nimble fingers. 
Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands !" 

Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
"In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the x\rrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 4° 

Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people 1" 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 
"Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us, 
There are feuds yet un forgotten. 
Wounds that ache and still may open !" 

Laughing answered Hiawatha : so 

"For that reason, if no other. 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united. 
That old feuds might be forgotten. 
And old wounds be healed forever !" 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women; 
Striding over moor and meadow. 
Through interminable forests, • 60 

Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic. 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outran his footsteps; 
And he journeyed without resting. 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
"Pleasant is the sound !" he murmured, 7° 
"Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" 

On the outskirts of the forests, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



389 



But they saw not Hiawatha; 

To his bow he whispered, "Fail not!" 

To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!" 

Sent it singing on its errand. 

To the red heart of the roebuck; 

Threw the deer across his shoulder, 80 

And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter. Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; 9° 

Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there. 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward, 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
Thinking of the great war-parties. 
How they came to buy his arrows, ^°° 
Could not fight without his arrows. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all Hke women, 
Only used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter. 
From another tribe and country. 
Young and tall and very handsome. 
Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, "o 

Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the falls of Minnehaha? 
On the mat her hands lay idle. 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a 
footstep, 120 

Heard a rustling in the branches. 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders. 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow. 
Bade him enter at the doorway. 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 130 

"Hiawatha, you are welcome !" 

At the feet of Laughing Water 



Hiawatha laid his burden. 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders; 
And the maiden looked up at him. 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!" 

Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer-skins dressed and whit- 
ened, 140 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains. 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter. 
Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, M9 

Brought forth food and set before them. 
Water brought them from the brooklet. 
Gave them food in earthen vessels. 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood. 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered. 
But not once her lips she opened. 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, '^o 

Who had nursed him in his childhood. 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician. 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 
In the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 

"After many years of warfare. 
Many years of strife and bloodshed. 
There is peace between the Ojibways 170 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
"That this peace may last forever. 
And our hands be clasped more closely. 
And our hearts be more united. 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah Women!" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 'So 

Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence. 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there. 
Neither willing nor reluctant, J90 



390 



AMERICAN POETRY 



As she went' to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
"I will follow you, my husband !" 

This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 

From the wigwam he departed. 
Leading with him Laughing Water; 200 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehahd 
Calling to them from the distance. 
Crying to them from afar off. 
Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 210 

Sat down by his sunny doorway. 
Murmuring to himself, and saying: 
"Thus it is our daughters leave us. 
Those we love, and those who love us ! 
Just when they have learned to help us. 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village. 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 220 

And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger !" 

Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain. 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 
Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and slack- 
ened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 230 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden; 
Light he thought her as a feather. 
As the plume upon his head-gear; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her. 
Bent aside the swaying branches. 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock. 
And a iire before th2 doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 240 

All the travelling winds went with them, 
O'er the meadows, through the forest; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slum- 
ber; 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 



And the rabbit, the Wabasso. 
Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 250 

Sat erect upon his haunches. 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
"Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you!" 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Happy are you. Laughing Water, 260 
Having such a noble husband !" 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches. 
Saying to them, "O mj^ children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow. 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine. 
Rule by love, O Hiawatha !" 

From the sky the moon looked at them. 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whispered to them, "O my children, 270 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble; 
Half is mine, although I follow; 
Rule by patience. Laughing Water !" 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight. 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 280 

Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 



THE WHITE MAN S FOOT 

In his lodge beside a river. 
Close beside a frozen river. 
Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 
White his hair was as a snow-drift; 
Dull and low his fire was burning, 
And the old man shook and trembled. 
Folded in his Waubewyon, 
In his tattered white-skin-wrapper. 
Hearing nothing but the tempest 
As it roared along the forest, 'o 

Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 
As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 
All the coals were white with ashes. 
And the fire was slowly dying, 
As a young man, walking lightly, 
At the open doorway entered. 
Red with blood of youth his cheeks were> 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



391 



Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
Bound his forehead was with grasses ; 
Bound and plumed with scented grasses, 20 
On his hps a smile of beauty, 
Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 
In his hand a bunch of blossoms 
Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 

"Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man, 
"Happy are my eyes to see you. 
Sit here on the mat beside me, 
Sit here by the dying embers, 
Let us pass the night together, 
Tell me of your strange adventures, 3o 
Of the lands where you have travelled; 
I will tell you of my prowess. 
Of my many deeds of wonder." 

From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe. 
Very old and strangely fashioned; 
Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 
And the stem a reed with feathers ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow. 
Placed a burning coal upon it, 
Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 4° 

And began to speak in this wise : 
'"When I blow my breath about me. 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Motionless are all the rivers. 
Hard as stone becomes the water !" 

And the young man answered, smiling: 
"'When I blow my breath about me. 
When I breathe upon the landscape. 
Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows. 
Singing, onward rush the rivers !" so 

"When I shake my hoary tresses," 
Said the old man darkly frowning, 
"All the land with snow is covered; 
All the leaves from all the branches 
Fall and fade and die and wither. 
For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 
From the waters and the marshes 
Rise the wild goose and the heron, 
Fly away to distant regions. 
For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 6" 

And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the wild beasts of the forest 
Hide themselves in holes and caverns, 
And the earth becomes as flintstone !" 

"When I shake my flowing ringlets," 
Said the young man, softly laughing, 
"Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, 
Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 
Back into their lakes and marshes 
Come the wild goose and the heron, 7° 
^Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, 
:Simg the bluebird and the robin, 
And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the meadows wave with blossoms. 
All the woodlands ring with music, 
All the trees are dark with foliage !" 



While they spake, the night departed ; 
From the distant realms of Wabun, 
From his shining lodge of silver. 
Like a warrior robed and painted, 8° 

Came the sun, and said, "Behold me 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me !" 

Then the old man's tongue was speech- 
less 
And the air grew warm and pleasant. 
And upon the wigwam sweetly 
Sang the bluebird and the robin, 
And the stream began to murmur. 
And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 

And Segwun, the youthful stranger, 9° 
More distinctly in the dayhght 
Saw the icy face before him; 
It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets. 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended, 
Till into the air it faded," 
Till into the ground it vanished. 
And the young man saw before him, 1°° 
On the hearth-stone of the wigwam. 
Where the fire had smoked and smoul- 
dered. 
Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 
Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, 
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the North-land 
After that unheard-of coldness. 
That intolerable Winter, 
Came the Spring with all its splendor. 
All its birds and all its blossoms, ^^° 

All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward. 
Flying in great flocks, like arrows. 
Like huge arrows shot through heaven. 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking almost as a man speaks ; 
And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder. 
Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa; 
And in pairs, or singly flying, ^^o 

Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions. 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee; 
And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 130 

Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
Heard their voices calling to him. 
Went forth from his gloomy doorway, 



392 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Stood and gazed into the heaven, 
Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to eastward, 
From the regions of the morning. 
From the shining land of Wabun, 
Homeward now returned lagoo, 
The great traveller, the great boaster, 140 
Full of new and strange adventures, 
Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures. 
Laughing answered him in this wise : 
"Ugh ! it is indeed lagoo ! 
No one else beholds such wonders !" 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea- Water, iso 

Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
Bitter so that none could drink it ! 
At each other looked the warriors. 
Looked the women at each other, 
Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so ! 
Kaw !"■ they saidj "it cannot be so !" 

"O'er it," said he, "o'er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying, 
Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, ^^o 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops !" 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other ; 
"Kaw !" they said, "we don't believe it !" 

From its mouth, he said, to greet him. 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning. 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor lagoo ; 169 

"Kaw !" they said, "what tales you tell us !" 

"In it," said he, "came a people. 
In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors; 
Painted white were all their faces 
And with hair their chins were covered !" 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision. 
Like the ravens on the tree-tops. 
Like the crows upon the hemlocks. ^79 

"Kaw !" they said, "what lies you tell us ! 
Do not think that we believe them !" 

Only Hiawatha laughed not. 
But he gravely spake and answered 
To their jeering and their jesting: 
"True is all lagoo tells us ; 
I have seen it in a vision, 
Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces. 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 190 

From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining lands of Wabun. 



"Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand. 
Sends them to us with his message. 
Wheresoe'er they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; 
Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them 200 
Springs a flower unknown among us. 
Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. 

"Let us welcome, then, the strangers, 
Hail them as our friends and brothers. 
And the heart's right hand of friendship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
Said this to me in my vision. 

"I beheld, too, in that vision 
All the secrets of the future, ^lo 

Of the distant days that shall be. 
I beheld the westward marches 
Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
All the land was full of people. 
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 
In the woodlands rang their axes. 
Smoked their towns in all the valleys. 
Over all the lakes and rivers ^^o 

Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 

"Then a darker, drearier vision 
Passed before me, vague and cloud-like; 
I beheld our nation scattered. 
All forgetful of my counsels. 
Weakened, warring with each other : 
Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woful, 
Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 
Like the withered leaves of Autumn !" 230 



HIAWATHA S DEPARTURE 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
At the doorway of his wigwam. 
In the pleasant summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 
All the air was full of freshness. 
All the earth was bright and joyous. 
And before him, through the sunshine. 
Westward toward the neighboring forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 1° 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers. 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 

Bright above him shone the heavens. 
Level spread the lake before him ; 
From its boson leaped the sturgeon, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



393 



Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; 
On its margin the great forest 
Stood reflected in the water, 
Every tree-top had its shadow, 
Motionless beneath the water. 20 

From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow, 
As the fog from off the water, 
As the mist from off the meadow. 
With a smile of joy and triumph, 
With a look of exultation, 
As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to be, but is not. 
Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it, 31 
And between the parted fingers 
Fell the sunshine on his features. 
Flecked with light his naked shoulders. 
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and branches. 

O'er the water floating, flying. 
Something in the hazy distance. 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water, 4° 

Now seemed floating, now seemed flying. 
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 

Was it Shingebis the diver? 
Or the pelican, the Shada? 
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? 
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 
With the water dripping, flashing, 
From its glossy neck and feathers? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 
Neither pehcan nor heron, 3° 

O'er the water floating, flying. 
Through the shining mist of morning. 
But a birch canoe with paddles. 
Rising, sinking on the water. 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine; 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 
From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, 
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, 6° 
With his guides and his companions. 

And the noble Hiawatha, 
With his hands aloft extended. 
Held aloft in sign of welcome 
Waited, full of exultation. 
Till the birch canoe with paddles 
Grated on the shining pebbles, 
Stranded on the sandy margin. 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
With the cross upon his bosom, 7° 

Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 
"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers. 



When you come so far to see us ! 
All our town in peace awaits you. 
All our doors stand open for you ; 
You shall enter all our wigwams. 
For the heart's right hand we give you. 

"Never bloomed the earth so gayly, 80 
Never shone the sun so brightly, 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us ! 
Never was our lake so tranquil. 
Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars ; 
For your birch canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand-bar. 

"Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor. 
Never the broad leaves of our cornfields 
Were so beautiful to look on, 91 

As they seem to us this morning. 
When you come so far to see us !" 

And the Black-Robe chief made answer. 
Stammered in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar: 
"Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your people. 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!" 1°° 

Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam, 
Seated them on skins of bison. 
Seated them on skins of ermine, 
And the careful old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of basswood. 
Water brought in birchen dippers. 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe, 
Filled and lighted for their smoking. 

All the old men of the village, "° 

All the warriors of the nation, 
All the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome; 
"It is well," they said, "O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us !" 

In a circle round the doorway, 
With their pipes they sat in silence. 
Waiting to behold the strangers, ^^o 

Waiting to receive their message ; 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
From the wigwam came to greet them. 
Stammering in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
"It is well," they said, "O brother. 
That you come so far to see us !" 

Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, 
Told his message to the people. 
Told the purport of his mission, 130 

Told them of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 
How in distant lands and ages 



394 



AMERICAN POETRY 



He had lived on earth as we do ; 
How he fasted, prayed, and labored ; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed. 
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him; 
How he rose from where they laid him. 
Walked again with his disciples, 
And ascended into heaven. m" 

And the chiefs made answer, saying: 
"We have listened to your message. 
We have heard your words of wisdom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, O brothers. 
That you come so far to see us !" 
Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam, 
To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers ^5° 

Whom the Master of Life had sent them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of summer; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam, 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it ; 
From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena ; i6° 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 
Weary with the heat of Summer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o'er the simmering landscape 
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, 
And the long and level sunbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest. 
Breaking through its shields of shadow, 
Rushed into each secret ambush. 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ; ^7o 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 

From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 
Did not wake the guests, that slumbered : 

"I am going, O Nokomis, 
On a long and distant journey, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the regions of the home-wind, i^o 

Of the Northwest- Wind, Keewaydin. 
But these guests I leave behind me. 
In your watch and ward I leave them ; 
See that never harm comes near them, 
See that never fear molests them, 
Never danger nor suspicion. 
Never want of food or shelter, 
In the lodge of Hiawatha!" 

Forth into the village went he. 
Bade farewell to all the warriors, iQU 

Bade farewell to all the young men, 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 



"I am going, O my people, 
On a long and distant journey; 
Many moons and many winters . 
Will have come, and will have vanished, 
Ere I come again to see you. 
But my guests I leave behind me; 
Listen to their words of wisdom. 
Listen to the truth they tell you, 200 

For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning !" 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand at parting; 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch canoe for sailing, 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water; 
Whispered to it, "Westward ! westward !" 
And with speed it darted forward. ^lo 

And the evening sun descending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness. 
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, 
Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river. 
Westward, westward, Hiawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset. 
Sailed into the purple vapors. 
Sailed into the dusk of evening. 220 

And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking. 
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted 
High into that sea of splendor, 
Till it sank into the vapors 
Like the new moon slowly, slowly 
Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, "Farewell forever !" 
Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !" 
And the forests, dark and lonely, 230 

Moved through all their depths of dark- 
ness. 
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" 
And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, rippling on the pebbles. 
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !" 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her haunts among the fen-lands, 
Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !" 

Thus departed Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 240 

In the glory of the sunset. 
In the purple mists of evening. 
To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter ! 

June 25, 1854-Mar. 21, 1855. 

Separately published Nov., 1855. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



395 



From THE COURTSHIP OF MILES 
STANDISH 



THE LOVER S ERRAND 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden 

went on his errand, 
Out of the street of the village, and into 

the paths of the forest, 
Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds 

and robins were building 
Towns in the populous trees, with hang- 
ing gardens of verdure. 
Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection 

and freedom. 
All around him was calm, but within him 

commotion and conflict, 
Love contending with friendship, and self 

with each generous impulse. 
To and fro in his breast his thoughts were 

heaving and dashing. 
As in a foundering ship, with every roll 

of tbe vessel. 
Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge 

of the ocean ! lo 

"Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a 

wild lamentation, — 
"Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, 

the illusion? 
Was it for this I have loved, and waited, 

and worshipped in silence? 
Was it for this I have followed the flying 

feet and the shadow 
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores 

of New England? 
Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of 

its depths of corruption 
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phan- 
toms of passion ; 
Angels of light they seem, but are only 

delusions of Satan. 
All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it 

distinctly ! 
This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid 

upon me in anger, 20 

For I have followed too much the heart's 

desires and devices, 
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impi- 
ous idols of Baal. 
This is the cross I must bear; the sin and 

the swift retribution." 

So through the Plymouth woods John 
Alden went on his errand; 

Crossing the brook at the ford, where it 
brawled over pebble and shallow, 

Gathering still, as he went, the May-flow- 
ers blooming around him, 



Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and 

wonderful sweetness. 
Children lost in the woods, and covered 

with leaves in their slumber. 
"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type 

of Puritan maidens, 
Modest and simple and sweet, the very 

type of Priscilla! 30 

So I will take them to her; to Priscilla 

the Mayflower of Plymouth, 
Modest and simple and sweet, as a part- 
ing gift will I take them; 
Breathing their silent farewells, as they 

fade and wither and perish. 
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of 

the giver." 
So through the Plymouth woods John 

Alden went on his errand; 
Came to an open space, and saw the disk 

of the ocean, 
Sailless, sombre and cold with the com- 
fortless breath of the east wind; 
Saw the new-built house, and people at 

work in a meadow; 
Heard, as he drew near the door, the mu- 
sical voice of Priscilla 
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand 

old Puritan anthem, 4° 

Music that Luther sang to the sacred 

words of the Psalmist, 
Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling 

and comforting many. 
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the 

form of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded 

wool like a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her white hands feed- 
ing the ravenous spindle. 
While with her foot on the treadle she 

guided the wheel in its motion. 
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn 

psalm-book of Ainsworth, 
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the 

music together, 
Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in 

the wall of a churchyard, 
Darkened and overhung by the running 

vine of the verses. 5° 

Such was the book from whose pages she 

sang the old Puritan anthem, 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the 

forest. 
Making the humble house and the modest 

apparel of homespun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with 

the wealth of her being! 
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen 

and cold and relentless, 



396 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Thoughts of what might have been, and 
the weight and woe of his errand; 

All the dreams that had faded, and all the 
hopes that had vanished, 

All his life henceforth a dreary and ten- 
entless mansion, 

Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sor- 
rowful faces. 

Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely 
he said it, 6° 

"Let not him that putteth his hand to the 
plough look backwards; 

Though the ploughshare cut through the 
flowers of life to its fountains, 

Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead 
and the hearths of the living, 

It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy 
endureth forever !" 



So he entered the house : and the hum 

of the wheel and the singing 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by 

his step on the threshold, 
Rose as he entered, and gave him her 

hand, in signal of welcome, 
Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard 

your step in the passage; 
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there 

singing and spinning." 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a 

thought of him had been mingled 7o 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from 

the heart of the maiden, 
Silent before her he stood, and gave her 

the flowers for an answer. 
Finding no words for his thought. He 

remembered that day in the winter. 
After the first great snow, when he broke 

a path from the village, 
ReeHng and plunging along, through the 

drifts that encumbered the doorway. 
Stamping the snow from his feet as he en- 
tered the house, and Priscilla 
Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him 

a seat by the fireside, 
Grateful and pleased to know he had 

thought of her in the snow-storm. 
Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in 

vain had he spoken ; 
Now it was all too late; the golden mo- 
ment had vanished ! ^ 
So he stood there abashed, and gave her 

the flowers for an answer. 



Then they sat down and talked of the 

birds and the beautiful spring-time, 

Talked of their friends at home, and the 

Mayflower that sailed on the morrow. 



"I have been thinking all day," said gently 

the Puritan maiden, 
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, 

of the hedge-rows of England, — 
They are in blossom now, and the country 

is all like a garden : 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song 

of the lark and the linnet. 
Seeing the village street, and familiar 

faces of neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping to 

gossip together. 
And, at the end of the street, the village 

church, with the ivy 9° 

Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet 

graves in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people I live with, and dear 

to me my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself 

back in Old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help 

it : I almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel 

so lonely and wretched." 

Thereupon answered the youth : "In- 
deed I do not condemn you ; 

Stouter hearts than a woman's have 
quailed in this terrible winter. 

Yours is tender and trusting, and needs 
a stronger to lean on ; 

So I have come to you now, with an offer 
and proffer of marriage 

Made by a good man and true. Miles 
Standish the Captain of Plymouth!" 

Thus he delivered his message, the dex- 
terous writer of letters, — ^°^ 

Did not embellish the theme, nor array it 
in beautiful phrases. 

But came straight to the point, and blurted 
it out like a school-boy; 

Even the Captain himself could hardly 
have said it more bluntly. 

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Pris- 
cilla the Puritan maiden 

Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated 
with wonder. 

Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned 
her and rendered her speechless ; 

Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting 
the ominous silence : 

"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so 
very eager to wed me. 

Why does he. not come himself, and take 
the trouble to woo me? "° 

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely 
am not worth the winning!" 

Then John Alden began explaining and 
smoothing the matter, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



397 



Making it worse as he went, by saying the 

Captain was busy, — 
Had no time for such things — such-things ! 

the words grating harshly 
Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as 

a flash she made answer : 
"Has he no time for such things, as you 

call it, before he is married, 
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, 

after the wedding? 
That is the way with you men ; you don't 

understand us, you cannot. 
"When you have made up your minds, af- 
ter thinking of this one and that one, 
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing 

one with another, 120 

Then you make known your desire, with 

abrupt and sudden avowal, 
And are offended and hurt, and indignant 

perhaps, that a woman 
Does not respond at once to a love that 

she never suspected. 
Does not attain at a bound the height to 

which you have been climbing. 
This is not right nor just: for surely a 

woman's affection 
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had 

for only the asking. 
When one is truly in love, one not only 

says it, but shows it. 
Had he but waited awhile, had he only 

showed that he loved me. 
Even this Captain of yours — who knows? 

— at last might have won me. 
Old and rough as he is ; but now it never 

can happen." 130 

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the 

words of Priscilla, 
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, 

persuading, expanding ; 
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all 

his battles in Flanders, 
How with the people of God he had chos- 

^ en to suffer affliction; 
How, in return for his zeal, they had 

made him Captain of Plymouth; 
He was a gentleman born, could trace his 

pedigree plainly 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, 

in Lancashire, England, 
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grand- 
son of Thurston de Standish ; 
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was 

basely defrauded. 
Still bore the family arms, and had for 

his crest a cock argent, 14° 

Combed and wattled gules, and all the 

rest of the blazon. 



He was a man of honor, of noble and 

generous nature; 
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she 

knew how during the winter 
He had attended the sick, with a hand as 

gentle as woman's; 
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not 

deny it, and headstrong, 
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, 

and placable always. 
Not to be laughed at and scorned, be- 
cause he w&s little of stature; 
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, 

courtly, courageous ; 
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman 

in England, 
Might be happy and proud to be called 

the wife of Miles Standish! 150 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his 

simple and eloquent language, 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the 

praise of his rival. 
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes 

overrunning with laughter, 
Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't 

you speak for yourself, John?" 



THE WEDDING-DAY 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from 

the tent of purple and scarlet,^ 
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in 

his garments resplendent, 
Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, 

on his forehead. 
Round the hem of his robe the golden 

bells and pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the bars 

of vapor beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea 

at his feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla 

the Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together; the El- 
der and Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and 

stood like the Law and the Gospel, 
One with the sanction of earth and one 

with the blessing of heaven. 'o 

Simple and brief was the wedding, as that 

of Ruth and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated 

the words of betrothal, 
Taking each other for husband and wife 

in the Magistrate's presence. 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable 

custom of Holland. 



398 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent 
Elder of Plymouth 

Prayed for the hearth and the home, that 
were founded that day in affection, 

Speaking of life and of death, and im- 
ploring Divine benedictions. 

Lo ! when the service was ended, a form 
appeared on the threshold. 

Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sor- 
rowful figure! 

Why does the bridegroom start and stare 
at the strange apparition? 20 

Why does the bride turn pale, and hide 
her face on his shoulder? 

Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spec- 
tral illusion? 

Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come 
to forbid the betrothal? 

Long had it stood there unseen, a guest 
uninvited, unwelcomed; 

Over its clouded eyes there had passed at 
times an expression 

Softening the gloom and revealing the 
warm heart hidden beneath them. 

As when across the sky the driving rack 
of the rain-cloud 

Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the 
sun by its brightness. 

Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its 
lips, but was silent. 

As if an iron will had mastered the fleet- 
ing intention. 30 

But when were ended the troth and the 
prayer and the last benediction, 

Into .the room it strode, and the people 
beheld with amazement 

Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, 
the Captain of Plymouth ! 

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said 
with emotion, "Forgive me ! 

I have been angry and hurt, — too long 
have I cherished the feeling; 

I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank 
God ! it is ended. 

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in 
the veins of Hugh Standish, 

Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in 
atoning for error. 

Never so much as now was Miles Stand- 
ish the friend of John Alden." 

Thereupon answered the bridegroom : 
"Let all be forgotten between us, — 40 

All save the dear old friendship, and that 
shall grow older and dearer !" 

Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, 
saluted Priscilla, 

Gravely, and after the manner of old- 
fashioned gentry in England, 



m 

■wn 11 



Something of camp and of court, of town 

and of country, commingled. 
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and 

loudly lauding her husband. 
Then he said with a smile : "I should have 

remembered the adage, — 
If you would be well served, you must Ij 

serve yourself; and moreover, «{ 

No man can gather cherries in Kent at 

the season of Christmas !" 

Great was the people's amazement, and 

greater yet their rejoicing. 
Thus to behold once more the sunburnt A 

face of their Captain. so ^ 

Whom they had mourned as dead ; and 

they gathered and crowded about him, 
Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful 

of bride and of bridegroom. 
Questioning, answering, laughing, and 

each interrupting the other. 
Till the good Captain declared, being quite 

overpowered and bewildered, 
He had rather by far break into an Indian 

encampment. 
Than come again to a wedding to which 

he had not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth 
and stood with the bride at the door- 
way. 

Breathing the perfumed air of that warm 
and beautiful morning. 

Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely 
and sad in the sunshine. 

Lay extended before them the land of toil 
and privation ; 60 

There were the graves of the dead, and 
the barren waste of the sea-shore. 

There the familiar fields, the groves of 
pine, and the meadows; 

But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed 
as the Garden of Eden, 

Filled with the presence of God, whose 
voice was the sound of the ocean. 

Soon was their vision disturbed by the 

noise and stir of departure. 
Friends coming forth from the house, and 

impatient of longer delaying. 
Each with his plan for the day, and the 

work that was left uncompleted. 
Then from a stall near at hand, amid ex- 
clamations of wonder. 
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so 

happy, so proud of Priscilla, 
Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying 

the hand of its master, 70 

Led by a cord that was tied to an iron 

ring in its nostrils. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



399 



Covered with crimson cloth, and a cush- 
ion placed for a saddle. 

She should not walk, he said, through the 
dust and heat of the noonday; 

Nay, she should ride like a queen, not 
plod along like a peasant. 

Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured 
by the others. 

Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot 
in the hand of her husband, 

Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mount- 
ed her palfrey. 

"Nothing is wanting now," he said with 
a smile, "but the distaff, 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my 
beautiful Bertha !" 

Onward the bridal procession now 

moved to their new habitation, 80 
Happy husband and wife, and friends con- 
versing together. 
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they 

crossed the ford in the forest. 
Pleased with the image that passed, like 

a dream of love, through its bosom, 
Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths 

of the azure abysses. 
Down through the golden leaves the sun 

was pouring his splendors, 
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from 

branches above them suspended. 
Mingled their odorous breath with the 

balm of the pine and the fir-tree. 
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew 

in the valley of Eshcol. 
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, 

pastoral ages, 
Fresh with the youth of the world, and 

recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 90 

Old and yet ever new, and simple and 

beautiful always. 
Love immortal and young in the endless 

succession of lovers. 
So through the Plymouth woods passed 

onward the bridal procession. 
1857-58. Separately published, 1858. 

MY LOST YOUTH 

Often I think of the beautiful town^ 

That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town. 

And my youth comes back to me. 

1 The town is Portland, Maine, Longfellow's 
birthplace. The fight mentioned in the fifth 
stanza took place between the American brig 
Enterprise and the English Boxer, in 1813. The 
Enterprise was victorious and brought her cap- 
tive into the harbor. 



And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, ^° 

And catch, in sudden gleams, 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas. 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song. 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the 

slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free; 20 

And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips. 

And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 

And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill ; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 3° 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er. 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 

How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil 
bay 40 

Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves. 
The shadows of Deering's Woods; 
And the friendships old and the early 

loves 
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of 
doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 5o 



400 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And the verse of that sweet old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that 
dart 
Across the school-boy's brain; 
The song and the silence in the heart. 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 6° 
Sings on, and is never still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not 
speak ; 
There are dreams that cannot die; 
There are thoughts that make the strong 

heart weak. 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 7° 

"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 



Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town; 
But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well- 
known street. 
As they balance up and down. 
Are singing the beautiful song. 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, ^o 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there. 
And among the dreams of the days that 
were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 90 



1855. 



With "Miles Standish," 1858. 



SANDALPHON 

Have you read in the Talmud of old. 
In the Legends the Rabbins have told 

Of the limitless realms of the air. 
Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? 

How, erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he waits, 

With his feet on the ladder of light, 
That, crowded with angels unnumbered, i° 
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 

Alone in the desert at night? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 

With the song's irresistible stress; 
Expire in their rapture and wonder. 
As harp-strings are broken asunder 

By music they throb to express. 

But serene in the rapturous throng, 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 20 

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
Among the dead angels, the deathless 
Sandalphon stands listening breathless 

To sounds that ascend from below;— 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 
From the souls that entreat and implore 

In the fervor and passion of prayer; 
From the hearts that are broken with 

losses, 
And weary with dragging the crosses 

Too heavy for mortals to bear. 3° 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
And they change into flowers in his hands. 

Into garlands of purple and red; 
And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
Through the streets of the City Immortal 

Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 

It is but a legend, I know, — 
A fable, a phantom, a show, 

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; 
Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 40 

The beautiful, strange superstition. 

But haunts me and holds me the more. 

When I look from my window at night. 
And the welkin above is all white, 

All throbbing and panting with stars, 
Among them majestic is standing 
Sandalphon the angel, expanding 

His pinions in nebulous bars. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



401 



And the legend, I feel, is a part 

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 5° 

The frenzy and fire of the brain, 
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 

To quiet its fever and pain. 

The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1858. 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 
five; 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and 

year. 
He said to his friend, "H the British 

march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal 

light,— 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 1° 
And I on the opposite shore will be. 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and 

farm. 
For the country folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said, "Good-night !" and with 

muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar, ^i 
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and 

street. 
Wanders and watches with eager ears. 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 
And the measured tread" of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the 

shore. 30 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old 

North Church, 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead. 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him 

made 



Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall. 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 4° 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent. 
And seeming to whisper, "All is well !" 
A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, and the secret 
dread so 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Re- 
vere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 6° 

Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth. 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry -tower of the Old North 

Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 
turns, 70 

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 
dark. 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- 
ing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 
fleet; 

That was all ! And yet, through the gloom 
and the light. 

The fate of a nation was riding that night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in 
his flight, 79 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 



402 



AMERICAN POETRY 



He has left the village and mounted the 

steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 

deep. 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the 

ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock. 
When he crossed the bridge into Medford 

town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock. 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 9o 
And felt the damp of the river fog. 
That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock. 
When he galloped into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 
And the meeting-house windows, blank 

and bare. 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look 

upon. '°° 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord 

town. 
He heard the bleating of the flock, 
And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 
And bne was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead. 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. "° 

You know the rest. In the books you 

have read. 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard 

wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane. 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
And so through the night went his cry of 

alarm ^ ^^° 

To every Middlesex vHlage and farm, — 
A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 

door, 
And a word that shall echo f orevermore ! 



For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last. 

In the hour of darkness and peril and 

need. 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 
And the midnight message of Paul Re- 
vere. 130 

1860. The Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1861. 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE 

King Robert of Sicily^ 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, 
Apparelled in magnificent attire. 
With retinue of many a knight and squire. 
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 
And heard the priest chant the Magnificat. 
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 
Repeated, like a burden or refrain. 
He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes 
De sede, et cxaltavit humiles;" i" 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 
He to a learned clerk beside him said, 
"What mean these words?" The clerk 

made answer meet, 
"He has put down the mighty from their 

seat, 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
" 'Tis well that such seditious words are 

sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; 
For unto priests and people be it known. 
There is no power can push me from my 

throne !" 20 

And leaning back, he yawned and fell 

asleep. 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 
When he awoken it was already night ; 
The church was empty, and there was no 

light. 
Save where the lamps, that glimmered 

few and faint, M 

Lighted a little space before some saint. I 
He started from his seat and gazed ■ 

around, 
But saw no living thing and heard no 

sound. ■ 

He groped towards the door, but it was f] 

locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then 

knocked, 3° 

^ This tale has had wide distribution and many 
retellings from Gesta Romanorum to William 
Morris's The Earthly Paradise, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



403 



And uttered awful threatenings and com- 
plaints, 

And imprecations upon men and saints. 

The sounds reechoed from the roof and 
walls 

As if dead priests were laughing in their 
stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from with- 
out 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house of 

prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is 

there?" 
Half choked with rage, King Robert 

fiercely said, 
"Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou 

afraid?" 4o 

The frightened sexton, muttering, with a 

curse, 
"This is some drunken vagabond, or 

worse !" 
Turned the great key and flung the portal 

wide; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, 

nor spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And .Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, si 
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with 

mire, 
With sense of wrong and outrage desper- 
ate, 
Strode on and thundered at the palace 

gate ; 
Rushed through the courtyard, thrustmg 

in his rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page. 
And hurried up the broad and sounding 

stair. 
His white face ghastly in the torches' 

glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breath- 
less speed; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not 
heed, ^ 

Until at last he reached the banquet-room. 
Blazing with light, and breathing with 
perfume. 

There on the dais sat another king. 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet- 
ring, 



King Robert's self in features, form, and 

height. 
But all transfigured with angelic light! 
It was an Angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air. 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
Though none the hidden Angel recog- 
nize. 70 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. 
The throneless monarch on the Angel 

gazed. 
Who met his look of anger and surprise 
With the divine compassion of his eyes; 
Then said, "Who art thou? and why 

com'st thou here?" 
To which King Robert answered with a 

sneer, 
"I am the King, and come to claim my 

own 
From an impostor, who usurps my 

throne !" 
And suddenly, at these audacious words, 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew 

their swords; 80 

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, 

thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scal- 
loped cape. 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they 

call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall I" 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries 
and prayers. 

They thrust him from the hall and down 
the stairs ; 

A group of tittering pages ran before. 

And as they opened wide the folding- 
door, 90 

His heart failed, for he heard, with 
strange alarms. 

The boisterous laughter of the men-at- 
arms. 

And all the vaulted chamber roar and 
ring 

With the mock plaudits of "Long live the 
King !" 

Next morning, waking with the day's first 

beam, 
He said within himself, "It was a dream !" 
But the straw rustled as he turned his 

head; 
There were the cap and bells beside his 

bed; 



404 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Around him rose the bare, discolored 

walls ; 
Close by, the steeds were champing in 

their stalls, io° 

And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched 

ape. 
It was no dream; the world he loved so 

much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his 

touch ! 

Days came and went; and now returned 

again 
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 
Under the Angel's governance benign 
The happy island danced with corn and 

wine, 
And deep within the mountain's burning 

breast 
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. "° 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his 

fate. 
Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters 

wear, 
With look bewildered and a vacant stare. 
Close shaven above the ears, as monks 

are shorn, 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to 

scorn. 

His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
And when the Angel met him on his way. 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would 

say, ^^ 

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might 

feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
"Art thou the King?" the passion of his 

woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow, 
And, lifting high his forehead, he would 

fling 
The haughty answer back, "I am the 

King !" 

Almost three years were ended; when 

there came 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Ur- 
bane 130 
By letter summoned them forthwith to 

come 
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 



The Angel with great joy received his 

guests. 
And gave them presents of embroidered 

vests. 
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined. 
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 
Whose loveliness was more resplendent 

made 
By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 140 
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, 

and the stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 
And lo ! among the menials, in mock state. 
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling 

gait. 
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the 

wind. 
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,, 
King Robert rode, making huge merri- 
ment 
In all the country towns through which 

they went. 
The Pope received them with great pomp 

and blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's 

square, iSo 

Giving his benediction and embrace, 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with 

prayers 
He entertained the Angel unawares, 
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the 

crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried 

aloud, 
"I am the King ! Look, and behold in me 
Robert, your brother. King of Sicily! 
This man, who wears my semblance to 

your eyes, 
Is an impostor In a king's disguise. i^" 
Do you not know me? does no voice with- 
in 
Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" 
The Pope in silence, but with troubled 

mien. 
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; 
The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is 

strange sport 
To keep a madman for thy Fool at 

court !" 
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 
Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week went by, 

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the 

sky; 170' 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



405 



The presence of the Angel, with its light, 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright. 
And with new fervor filled the hearts of 

men, 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen 

again. 
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor 

saw, 
He felt within a power unfelt before, 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber- 
floor. 
He heard the rushing garments of the 

Lord 
Sweep through the silent air, ascending 
heavenward. i8o 

And now the visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and 

again 
The land was made resplendent with his 

train. 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's 

wall. 
And, seated on the throne in his great 

hall. 
He heard the Angelus from convent 

towers. 
As if the better world conversed with 

ours, 190 

He beckoned to King Robert to draw 

nigher, 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire; 
And when they were alone, the Angel 

said, 
"Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down 

his head. 
King Robert crossed both hands upon his 

breast. 
And meekly answered him : "Thou know- 

est best ! 
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence. 
And in some cloister's school of peni- 
tence, 
Across those stones, that pave the way 

to heaven. 
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be 

shriven !" 200 

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant 

face 
A holy light illumined all the place. 
And through the open window, loud and 

clear, 
They heard the monks chant in the chapel 

near, 



Above the stir and tumult of the street: 
"He has put down the mighty from their 

seat. 
And has exalted them of low degre^!" 
And through the chant a second melody 
Rose like the throbbing of a single string. 
"I am an Angel, and thou art the King !" 

King Robert, who was standing near the 

throne, 211 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone! 
But all apparelled as in days of old, 
With ermined mantle and with cloth of 

gold; 
And when his courtiers came, they found 

him there 
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent 

prayer, 

1861? 

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE 

The Saga of King Olaf^ 



THE CHALLENGE OF THOR 

I am the God Thor, 
I am the War God, 
I am the Thunderer ! 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress, 
Reign I forever ! 

Here amid icebergs 

Rule I the nations; 

This is my hammer, 

Miolner the mighty; 10 

Giants and sorcerers 

Cannot withstand it! 

These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off; 
This is my girdle; 
Whenever I brace it. 
Strength is redoubled ! 

The light thou beholdest 

Stream through the heavens, ^ 

In flashes of crimson, 

Is but my red beard 

Blown by the night-wind, 

Affrighting the nations ! 

^ Longfellow obtained the material for The 
Saga of King Olaf from The Heimskrmgla; or 
Chronicle of the Kings of Norway. Translated 
from the Icelandic by Snorro Sturleson, with 
a Preliminary Dissertation by Samuel Laing. 
The poems deal with striking incidents in Olaf's 



406 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Jove is my brother ; 

Mine eyes are the lightning; 

The wheels of my chariot 

Roll in the thunder, 

The blows of my hammer 

Ring in the earthquake ! 

Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall rule it; 
Meekness is weakness, 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 
Still is it Thor's-Day ! 

Thou art a God too, 
O Galilean ! 

And thus single-handed 
Unto the combat 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 
Here I defy thee! 



How a stranger watched his face 
In the Esthonian market-place. 

Scanned his features one by one, 
Saying, "We should know each other; 
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother. 

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!" 



Then as Queen Allogia's page, 

Old in honors, young in age, 8 

Chief of all her men-at-arms; 
Till vague whispers, and mysterious. 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 

Filling him with strange alarms. 



Then his cruisings o'er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides 

And to Scilly's rocky shore; 
And the hermit's cavern dismal, 
Christ's great name and rites baptismal 

In the ocean's rush and roar. 90 



KING OLAF S RETURN 

And King Olaf heard the cry, 
Saw the red light in the sky, 

Laid his hand upon his sword. 
As he leaned upon the railing, _ 
And his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

There he stood as one who dreamed; 
And the red light glanced and gleamed so 

On the armor that he wore; 
And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

"I accept thy challenge, Thor!" 

To avenge his father slain, 
And reconquer realm and reign, 

Came the youthful Olaf home, 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing. 
Listening to the wild wind's wailing. 

And the dashing of the foam. 6° 

To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came, 

And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses. 

To the home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, 

And a hurried flight by sea; 
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 7° 

Of the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the life of slavery. 



All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life. 

As the stars' intenser light 
Through the red flames o'er him trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward in the summer night. 

Trained for either camp or court. 
Skilful in each manly sport. 

Young and beautiful and tall; 
Art of warfare, craft of chases, 1°° 

Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 

Excellent alike in all. 

When at sea, with all his rowers, 
He along the bending oars 

Outside of his ship could run. 
He the Smalsor Horn ascended, 
And his shining shield suspended 

On its summit, like a sun. 

On the ship-rails he could stand 

Wield his sword with either hand, ''° 

And at once two javelins throw; 
At all feasts where ale was strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest. 

First to come and last to go. 

Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 

One so royal in attire. 
When in arms completely furnished, 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished. 

Mantle like a flame of fire. 12° 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



407 



Thus came Olaf to his own, 
When upon the night-wind blown 

Passed that cry along the shore; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

"I accept thy challenge, Thor !" 



THORA OF RIMOL 

"Thora of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! 

Danger and shame and death betide me ! 

For Olaf the King is hunting me down 

Through field and forest, through thorp 
and town !" ^3° 

Thus cried Jarl Hakon 
To Thora, the fairest of women. 

"Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame nor death come near 

thee! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the 
sty." 
Thus to Jarl Hakon 
Said Thora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon 
darker, _ _ ho 

As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 
Through the forest roads into Orkadale, 
Demanding Jarl Hakon 
Of Thora, the fairest of women. 

"Rich and honored shall be whoever 
The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!" 
Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, 
Through the breathing-holes of the dark- 
some cave. 

Alone in her chamber 

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 'So 

Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay 

thee ! 
For all the king's gold I will never betray 

thee !" 
"Then why dost thou turn so pale, O 

churl, 
And then again black as the earth?" said 
the Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 

From a dream in the night the thrall 

started, saying, 
"Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf 

was laying !" 



And Hakon answered, "Beware of the 

king! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood-red 
ring." i6o 

At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows 

encumbered, 
But screamed and drew up his feet as 

he slumbered; 
The thrall in the darkness plunged with 

his knife, 
And the Earl awakened no more in this 
life. 
But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 

At Nidarholm the priests are all singing. 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are 
swinging; 170 

One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's. 
And the people are shouting from win- 
dows and walls ; 
While alone in her chamber 
Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. 



QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and 

aloft 
In her chamber, that looked over meadow 
and croft. 
Heart's dearest, 
Why dost thou sorrow so? 

The floor with tassels of fir was besprent. 
Filling the room with their fragrant scent. 

She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun 

shine, 181 

The air of summer was sweeter than wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright 

river lay 
Between her own kingdom and Norroway. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, 
The sword would be sheathed, the river 
be spanned. 

Her maidens were seated around her knee. 
Working bright figures in tapestry. 

And one was singing the ancient rune 
Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of 
Gudrun. 190 



408 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And through it. and round it, and over 

it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring of 

gold, 
From the door of Lade's Temple old. 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, 
But her thoughts as arrows were keen 
and swift. 

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths 

twain, 
Who smiled, as they handed it back again. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty 

way, 
Said, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, 

say ?" ^o 

And they answered: "O Queen! if the 

truth must be told. 
The ring is of copper, and not of gold!" 

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead 

and cheek. 
She only murmured, she did not speak : 

"If in his gifts he can faithless be. 
There will be no gold in his love to me." 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair. 
And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he 

whispered of love. 
And swore to be true as the stars are 

above. -2'° 

But she smiled with contempt as she an- 
swered : "O King, 

Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, 
on the ring?" 

And the King: "Oh, speak not of Odin 

to me. 
The wife of King Olaf a Christian must 

be." 

Looking straight at the King, with her 

level brows. 
She said, "I keep true to my faith and 

my vows." 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened 

with gloom, 
He rose in his anger and strode through 

the room. 



"Why, then, should I care to have thee?" 

he said, — 2:9 

"A faded old woman, a heathenish jade !" 

His zeal was stronger than fear or love, 
And he struck the Queen in the face with 
his glove. 

Then forth from the chamber in anger 

he fled. 
And the wooden stairway shook with his 

tread. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her 

breath, 
"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy 
death !" 
Heart's dearest. 
Why dost thou sorrow so? 

VII 
IRON-BEARD 

Olaf the King, one summer morn. 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 23° 

Sending his signal through the land of 
Drontheim. 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 
Gathered the farmers far and near, 
With their war weapons ready to confront 
him. 

Ploughing under the morning star. 
Old Iron-Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling with a low 
laugh. 

He wiped the sweat-drops from his 

brow. 
Unharnessed his horses from the 

plough. 
And clattering came on horseback to 

King Olaf. 240 

He was the churliest of the churls; 
Little he cared for king or earls ; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foam- 
ing passions. 

Hodden-gray was the garb he wore. 
And by the Hammer of Thor he swore ; 
He hated the narrow town, and all its 
fashions. 

But he loved the freedom of his farm. 
His ale at night, by the fireside warm. 
Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen 
tresses. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



409 



He loved his horses and his herds, 250 
The smell of the earth, and the song of 

birds, 
His well-filled barns, his brook with its 

water-cresses. 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame; 
His beard, from which he took his 
name, 
Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the 
Giant. 

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, 

The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 

On horseback, in an attitude defiant. 

And to King Olaf he cried aloud. 
Out of the middle of the crowd, 260 
That tossed about him like a stormy 
ocean : 

"Such sacrifices shalt thou bring 
To Odin and to Thor, O King, 
As other kings have done in their de- 
votion !" 



And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the as- 
sailing. 

King Olaf from the doorway spoke : 
"Choose ye between two things, my 
folk, 290 

To be baptized or given up to slaughter!" 

And seeing their leader stark and dead, 
The people with a murmur said, 
"O King, baptize us with thy holy water." 

So all the Drontheim land became 
A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and 
trusting. 

And as a blood-atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 
And thus in peace ended the Drontheim 
Hus-Ting ! 300 



King Olaf answered : "I command 
This land to be a Christian land ; 
Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! 

"But if you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with gore. 
Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 270 

"Not slaves and peasants shall they be. 
But men of note and high degree, 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of 
Gryting !" 

Then to their Temple strode he in, 
And loud behind him heard the din 
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants 
fiercely fighting. 

There in the Temple, carved in wood, 
The image of great Odin stood, 
And other gods, with Thor supreme 
among them. 

King Olaf smote them with the blade 280 
Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, 
And downward shattered to the pavement 
flung them. 

At the same moment rose without, 
From the contending crowd, a shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and of wail- 
ing. 



RAUD THE STRONG 

"All the old gods are dead. 

All the wild warlocks fled; 

But the White Christ lives and reigns, 

And throughout my wide domains 

His Gospel shall be spread !" 

On the Evangelists 

Thus swore King Olaf. 

But still in dreams of the night 

Beheld he the crimson light, 

And heard the voice that defied 3 

Him who was crucified. 

And challenged him to the fight. 

To Sigurd the Bishop 

King Olaf confessed it. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
"The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns. 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread." 

Thus to King Olaf 3^ 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

"Far north in the Salten Fiord, 

By rapine, fire, and sword, 

Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; 

All the Godoe Isles belong 

To him and his heathen horde." 

Thus went on speaking 

Sigurd the Bishop. 



410 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"A warlock, a wizard is he, 

A lord of the wind and the sea; 330 

And whichever way he sails, 

He has ever favoring gales, 

By his craft in sorcery." 

Here the sign of the cross 

Made devoutly King Olaf. 

"With rites that we both abhor, 

He worships Odin and Thor; 

So it cannot j-et be said, 

That all the old gods are dead. 

And the warlocks are no more," 34° 

Flushing with anger 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

Then King Olaf cried aloud : 
"I will talk with this mighty Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my shroud !" 

So northward from Drontheim 

Sailed King Olaf! 

XIX 
KING OLAf's war-horns 

"Strike the sails !" King Olaf said ; 3So 
"Never shall men of mine take flight. 
Never away from battle I fled, 
Never away from my foes ! 

Let God dispose 
Of my hfe in the fight!" 

"Sound the horns!" said Olaf the King; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 
The blare of the horns began to ring. 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Reg-narock, 360 

On the Day of Doom ! 



Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor of the flood; 
All the sails came down with a clang, 
And there in the midst overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 



King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak; 
His gilded shield was without a fleck. 
His helmet inlaid with gold. 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 380 

Watched the lashing of the ships; 

"If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 

We shall have hard work of it here," 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 
"Have I a coward on board?" said he. 
"Shoot it another way, O King!" 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 

The old sea-wolf; . 390 

"You have need of me !" 

In front came Svend, the King of the 

Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers; 
To the right, the Swedish king with his 

thanes ; 
And on board of the Iron-Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
To the left with his oars. 

"These soft Danes and Swedes," said the 

King, 
"At home with their wives had better stay. 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's 

sting : 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 400 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day !" 

Then as together the vessels crashed 
Eric severed the cables of hide. 
With which King Olaf's ships were lashed. 
And left them to drive and drift 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, 410 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King! 



Drifting down on the D>anish fleet 
Three together the ships were lashed, 36? 
So that neither should turn and retreat; 
In the midst, but in front of the rest, 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 



EINAR TAMBERSKELVER 



It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, 

Flew the arrows fast; 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



411 



Aimed at Eric unavailing, 420 

As he sat concealed, 
Half behind the qucrter-railing, 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller 

Just above his head; 
"Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller," 

Then Earl f^ric said. 
"Sing the song of Hakon dying, 

Sing his funeral wail !" 
And another arrow flying 43° 

Grazed his coat of mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed, 
Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 
Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 

"What was that?" said Olaf, standing 440 

On the quarter-deck. 
"Something heard I like the stranding 

Of a shattered wreck." 
Einar then, the arrow taking 

From the loosened string. 
Answered, "That was Norway breaking 

From thy hand, O King!" 

"Thou art but a poor diviner," 

Straightway Olaf said; 
"Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 4So 

Let thy shafts be sped." 
Of his bows the fairest choosing. 

Reached he from above ; 
Einar saw the blooddrops oozing 

Through his iron glove. 

But the bow was thin and narrow; 

At the first essay. 
O'er its head he drew the arrow, 

Flung the bow away; 
Said, with hot and angry temper 460 

Flushing in his cheek, 
"Olaf ! for so great a Kamper 

Are thy bows too weak!" 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 

On his beardless lip. 
Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing. 

Bright his armor gleamed; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 47° 

Lucifer he seemed. 



KING OLAF S DEATH-DRINK 

All day has the battle raged. 
All day have the ships engaged, 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped, 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions hurl. 

They drift as wrecks on the tide, 480 

The grappling-irons are plied, 
The boarders climb up the side, 
The shouts are feeble and few. 

Ah ! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o'er the main; 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen fling, 49° 

And the stones they hurl with their 
hands. 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, 
His shield in the air he uprears, 

By the side of King Olaf he stands. 

Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent's deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale; 

He hews with his axe at the mast, 5°° 

Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men, 
As a hunter into the den 

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 

"Remember Jarl Hakon !" he cries ; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes 
Two kingly figures arise, 510 

Two Olafs in warlike array! 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer. 
In a whisper that none may hear. 
With a smile on his tremulous lip; 



412 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Two shields raised high in the air, 
Two flashes of golden hair, 
Two scarlet meteors' glare. 
And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric's men in the boats s^o 

Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats. 
And cry, from their hairy throats, 
"See! it is Olaf the King!" 

While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
Like a jewel set in the wide 
Sea-current's eddying ring. 

There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped off his mail. 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 53° 
As he swam beneath the main ; 



But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day, 
In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again ! 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 

It was the season, when through all the 
land 
The merle and mavis build, and build- 
ing sing 
Those lovely lyrics, written by his hand, 
Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe- 
heart King; 
When on the boughs the purple buds ex- 
pand, 
The banners of the vanguard of the 
Spring, 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap. 
And wave their fluttering signals from 
the steep. 



"Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily 
bread !" 

Across the Sound the birds of passage 
sailed. 
Speaking some unknown language 
strange and sweet 
Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 
The village with the cheers of all their 
fleet ; 20 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and 
railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 
Of seaport towns, and with outlandish 

noise 
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls 
and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in KilHng- 
worth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years 
ago; 
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the 
earth. 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the 
crow. 
That mingled with the universal mirth, 

Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; 3° 
They shook their heads, and doomed with 

dreadful words 
To swift destruction the whole race of 
birds. 

And a town - meeting was convened 
straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 
And cornfields, and beheld without dis- 
may 
The awful scarecrow, with its fluttering 
shreds; 
The skeleton that waited at their feast, 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was in- 
creased. 40 



The robin and the bluebird, piping loud. 
Filled all the blossoming orchards with 
their glee; 10 

The sparrows chirped as if they still were 
proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should men- 
tioned be; 
And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer inces- 
santly, * 
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and 
said: 



Then from his house, a temple painted 
white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red. 
The Squire came forth, august and splen- 
did sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread. 
Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor 
right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one 
who said, 
"A town that boasts inhabitants like me 
Can have no lack of good society !" 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



413 



The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 

The instinct of whose nature was to 

kill; 50 

The wrath of God he preached from year 

to year. 

And read, with fervor, Edwards on the 

Will; 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 

In summer on some Adirondac hill; 
E'en now, while walking down the rural 

lane, 
He lopped the wayside lihes with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of 
brass. 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at the 
green grass, ^ 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said. 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his 
door. 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as 
snow; 
A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 
His form was ponderous, and his step 
was slow; 
There never was so wise a man before ; 
He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told 
you so !" 70 

And to perpetuate his great renown 
There was a street named after him in 
town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region 
round. 
The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 
His air impressive and his reasoning 
sound ; 
111 fared it with the birds, both great and 
small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they 
found, 
But enemies enough, who every one 
Charged them with all the crimes beneath 
the sun. 80 

When they had ended, from his place 

apart 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the 

wrong. 
And, trembling like a steed before the 

start, 



Looked round bewildered on the ex- 
pectant throng; 
Then thought of fair Almira, and took 
heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear 
and strong. 
Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 
And quite determined not to be laughed 
down. 

"Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 

From his Republic banished without 
pity 90 

The Poets ; in this little town of yours. 
You put to death, by means of a Com- 
mittee, 
The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 
The street-musicians of the heavenly 
city, 
The birds, who make sweet music for us 

all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

"The thrush that carols at the dawn of 
day 
From the green steeples of the piny 
wood ; 
The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, 

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost 

spray, loi 

Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the 

throng 
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of 
song. 

"You slay them all! and wherefore? for 
the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of 
wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 
Scratched up at random by industrious 
feet, 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests "^ 
Sing at their feast with comfortable 
breasts. 

"Do you ne'er think what wondrous be- 
ings these? 
Do you ne'er think who made them, and 
who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought? 
Whose household words are songs in 
many keys, 
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er 
caught ! 



414 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to 
heaven ! 120 

"Think, every morning when the sun 
peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the 
grove. 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 

Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember too 

'Tis always morning somewhere, and 

above 

The awakening continents, from shore to 

shore. 
Somewhere the birds are singing ever- 
more. 

"Think of your woods and orchards with- 
out birds ! 
Of empty nests that cling to boughs and 
beams 130 

As in an idiot's brain remembered words 
Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his 
dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 
Make up for the lost music, when your 
teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no 

more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your 
door? 

"What! would you rather see the inces- 
sant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay. 
And hear the locust and the grasshopper 

Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? 
Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet rounde- 
lay, 142 
Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 
Your nooning in the shade of bush and 
brake ? 

"You call them thieves and pillagers; but 
know, 
They are the winged wardens of your 
farms. 
Who from the cornfields drive the insidi- 
ous foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hun- 
dred harms ; 
Even the blackest of them all, the crow. 
Renders good service as your man-at- 
arms, _ 'SO 
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 
And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 



"How can I teach your children gentle- 
ness. 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 
For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence. 
Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no 
less 
The selfsame light, although averted 
hence. 
When by your laws, your actions, and 
your speech, 159 

You contradict the very things I teach?" 

With this he closed; and through the 
audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead 
leaves ; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and 
some bent 
Their yellow heads together like their 
sheaves ; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 
Who put their trust in bullocks and 
in beeves. 
The birds were doomed; and, as the rec- 
ord shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making 
laws, 170 

But in the papers read his little speech, 
And crowned his modest temples with 
applause ; 
They made him conscious, each one more 
than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their 
cause. 
Sweetest of all the applause he won from 

thee, 
O fair Almira at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began; 
O'er fields and orchards, and o'er wood- 
land crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 
Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains 
on their breasts, 18° 

Or wounded crept away from sight of 
man. 
While the young died of famine in their 
nests ; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not 

words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 

The summer came, and all the birds were 
dead; 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



415 



The days were like hot coals ; the very 
ground 
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 
Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and 
found 190 

No foe to check their march, till they had 

made 
The land a desert, without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the 
town, 
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the 
trees spun down 
The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and 
gown, 
Who shook them off with just a little 
cry; 
They were the terror of each favorite 
walk, 199 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 
Confessed their error, and would not 
complain, 
For after all, the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 
Then they repealed the law, although 
they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again; 
As school-boys, finding their mistake too 

late, 
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing 
slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn 
came 2°9 

Without the light of his majestic look. 
The wonder of the falling tongues of 
flame. 
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day 
book. 
A few lost leaves blushed crimson with 
their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in 
the brook, 
While the wild wind went moaning every- 
where. 
Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next spring a stranger sight was 

seen, 
A sight that' never yet by bard was 

sung, 
As great a wonder as it would have been 



If some dumb animal had found a 

tongue ! _ ^^ 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages 

hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the 

street, 
Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds 

were brought. 
By order of the town, with anxious 

quest. 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, 

sought 
In woods and fields the places they 

loved best. 
Singing loud canticles, which many 

thought 
Were satires to the authorities ad- 
dressed, 230 
While others, Hstening in green lanes, 

averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to 
know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day. 
And everywhere, around, above, below. 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away. 
Their songs burst forth in joyous over- 
flow. 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 240 ■ 

1863. The Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1863. 

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 

Between the dark and the daylight. 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 1° 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 



416 



AMERICAN POETRY 



A sudden rush from the stairway, 
xA. sudden raid from the hall ! 

Bj- three doors left unguarded 

They enter my castle wall ! 20 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine. 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because 3-ou have scaled the wall, 3° 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have you fast in my fortress. 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away ! 40 

1859. The Atlantic Monthly, Sept., 1860. 



THE CUMBERLAND 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay. 
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of- 
war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the 
bay 
The alarum of drums swept past. 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke. 
And we knew that the iron ship of our 
foes 
Was steadily steering its course ^° 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her 
guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath. 
From each open port. 



We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside! «> 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

''Strike your flag !" the rebel cries. 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies; 
"It is better to sink than to yield !" 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 3" 

Then, like a kraken huge and black. 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp I 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 
Still floated our flag at the mainmast 
head. 
Lord, how beautiful was thy day! 

Every waft of the air 40 

W'as a whisper. of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the 
seas ! 
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these. 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain. 
Shall be one again. 
And without a seam ! 

1862. The Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1862. 

WEARINESS 

O little feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am wear}\ thinking of your road! 

O little hands ! that, weak or strong. 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I. who so much with book and pen 1° 
Have toiled among my fellow-men. 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat. 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned, 
With passions into ashes turned, 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



417 



O little souls ! as pure and white 

And crystalline as rays of light 20 

Direct from heaven, their source divine; 
Refracted through the mist of years, 
How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine ! 

1863? The Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1863. 



HAWTHORNE 

it was, that 



one bright 



How beautiful 
dayi 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase 
away 
The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple- 
blooms. 

And the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old 
manse. 

The historic river flowed : 1° 

I was as one who wanders in a trance, 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed 
strange ; 
Their voices I could hear, 
And yet the words they uttered seemed 
to change 
Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not 
there. 

The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence filled the air. 

And bafifled my pursuit. 20 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, 
and stream 

Dimly my thought defines; 
I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast. 

The voice so like his own. 

* Hawthorne was buried on May 23, 1864. 



There in seclusion and remote from men 
The wizard hand lies cold, 30 

Which at its topmost speed let fall the 
pen, 
And left the tale half told. 

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic 
power. 

And the lost clew regain? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinished must remain ! 



(As "Concord.") The 
Monthly, Aug., 1864. 



A tlantic 



THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY 

See, the fire is sinking low, 
Dusky red the embers glow. 

While above them still I cower, 
While a moment more I linger, 
Though the clock, with lifted finger. 

Points beyond the midnight, hour. 

Sings the blackened log a tune 
Learned in some forgotten June 

From a school-boy at his play. 
When they, both were young together, 1° 
Heart of youth and summer weather 

Making all their holiday. 

And the night-wind rising, hark! 
How above there in the dark. 

In the midnight and the snow. 
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, 
Like the trumpets of Iskander, 

All the noisy chimneys blow ! 

Every quivering tongue of flame. 

Seems to murmur some great name, 20 

Seems to say to me, "Aspire !" 
But the night-wind answers, "Hollow 
Are the visions that you follow. 

Into darkness sinks your fire!" 

Then the flicker of tlie blaze 
Gleams on volumes of old days, 

Written by masters of the art, 
Loud through whose majestic pages 
Rolls the melody of ages. 

Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 3° 

And again the tongues of flame 
Start exulting and exclaim : 

"These are prophets, bards, and seers; 
In the horoscope of nations. 
Like ascendant constellations, 

They control the coming years." 



418 



AMERICAN POETRY 



But the night-wind cries : "Despair ! 
Those who walk with feet of air 

Leave no long-enduring marks ; 
At God's forges incandescent 4° 

Mighty hammers beat incessant, 

These are but the flying sparks. 

"Dust are all the hands that wrought; 
Books are sepulchres of thought; 

The dead laurels of the dead 
Rustle for a moment only, 
Like the withered leaves in lonely 

Churchyards at some passing tread." 

Suddenly the flame sinks down; 

Sink the rumors of renown; 5° 

And alone the night-wind drear 
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — 
" 'Tis the brand of Meleager 

Dying on the hearth-stone here !" 

And I answer, — "Though it be. 
Why should that discomfort me? 

No endeavor is in vain ; 
Its reward is in the doing. 
And the rapture of pursuing 

Is the prize of vanquished gain." ^ 

The Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1865. 



CHRISTMAS BELLS 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

Had rolled along 

The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! ^° 

Till, ringing, singing on its vay, 

The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 
• And with the sound 
The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! ~° 



It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 

And made forlorn 

The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And in despair I bowed my head; 
"There is no peace on earth," I said; 

"For hate is strong. 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" 3° 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep : 
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep! 

The Wrong shall fail. 

The Right prevail. 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" 

1864. 
DIVINA COMMEDIAi 



Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
Lay down his burden, and with reverent 

feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; 
Far off the noises of the world retreat; 
The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an undistinguishable roar. 
So, as I enter here from day to day. 
And leave my burden at this minster gate. 
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to 

pray, " 

The tumult of the time disconsolate 
To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
While the eternal ages watch and wait. 

1864. 



Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1864. 



How strange the sculptures that adorn 

these towers ! 
This crowd of statues, in whose folded 

sleeves 
Birds build their nests; while canopied 

with leaves 
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised 

bowers, 
And the vast minster seems a cross of 

flowers ! 

^ After the tragic death of Mrs. Longfellow 
in 1861, Longfellow took refuge in translating 
Dante's Divine Comedy. He wrote but little 
tlse from 1S61 to 1869. Almost the only allu- 
sions to his grief are found in the first of these 
sonnets and in The Cross of Snow. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



419 



But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled 

eaves 20 

Watch the dead Christ between the living 

thieves, 
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers ! 
Ah ! from what agonies of heart and brain. 
What exultations trampling on despair, 
What tenderness, what tears, what hate 

of wrong. 
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, 
Uprose this poem of the earth and air. 
This mediaeval miracle of song ! 

1864. 1866. 
Ill 

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom 

Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! 3° 

And strive to make my steps keep pace 

with thine. 
The air is filled with some unknown per- 
fume; 
The congregation of the dead make room 
For thee to pass ; the votive tapers shine ; 
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves 

of pine 
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to 

tomb. 
From the confessionals I hear arise 
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies. 
And lamentations from the crypts below; 
And then a voice celestial that begins 4° 
With the pathetic words, "Although your 

sins 
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the 
snow." 

1865. 1866. 

IV 

With snow-white veil and garments as of 

flame. 
She stands before thee, who so long ago 
Filled thy young heart with passion and 

the woe 
From which thy song and all its splendors 

came ; 
And while with stern rebuke she speaks 

thy name, 
The ice about thy heart melts as the snow 
On mountain heights, and in swift over- 
flow 
Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of 

shame. so 

Thou makest full confession ; and a gleam, 
As of the dawn on some dark forest cast. 
Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; 
Lethe and Eunoe — the remembered dream 
And the forgotten sorrow — bring at last 
That perfect pardon which is perfect 

peace. 
1867. 1867. 



I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze 

With forms of Saints and holy men who 
died, 

Here martyred and hereafter glorified; 

And the great Rose upon its leaves dis- 
plays ^° 

Christ's Triumph, and the angelic rounde- 
lays. 

With splendor upon splendor multiplied; 

And Beatrice again at Dante's side 

No more rebukes, but smiles her words of 
praise. 

And then the organ sounds, and unseen 
choirs 

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and 
love 

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; 

And the melodious bells among the spires 

O'er all the house-tops and through hea- 
ven above 

Proclaim the elevation of the Host! 7° 

1866. 1866. 



O star of morning and of liberty ! 

O bringer of the light, whose splendor 

shines 
Above the darkness of the Apennines, 
Forerunner of the day that is to be ! 
The voices of the city and the sea. 
The voices of the mountains and the pines, 
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lin«s 
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy ! 
Thy flame is blown abroad from all the 

heights. 
Through all the nations, and a sound is 
heard, 80 

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, 
Strangers of Rome, and the new pros- 
elytes. 
In their own language hear the wondrous 

word. 
And many are amazed and many doubt. 
1866 1866. 

KILLED AT THE FORD 1 

He is dead, the beautiful youth. 
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth. 
He, the life and light of us all, 
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, 
Whom all eyes followed with one consent. 
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose 

pleasant word. 
Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

1 In a letter dated March 23, 1866, Longfellow 
states that this poem was not the record of a 
particular event. 



420 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Only last night, as we rode along, 
Down the dark of the mountain gap, 
To visit the picket-guard at the ford, 1° 
Little dreaming of any mishap, 
He was humming the words of some old 

song: 
"Two red roses he had on his cap 
And another he bore at the point of his 

sword." 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 
Came out of a wood, and the voice was 

still; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall, 
And for a moment my blood grew chill; 
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 
In a room where some one is lying dead; 
But he made no answer to what I said. 21 

We lifted him up to his saddle again. 
And through the mire and the mist and 
the rain 



Carried him back to the silent camp. 
And laid him as if asleep on his bed; 
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's 

lamp 
Two white roses upon his cheeks, 
An9' one, just over his heart, blood-red! 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 
That fatal bullet went speeding forth, 3° 
Till it reached a town in the distant 

North, 
Till it reached a house in a sunny street, 1 
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat l| 
Without a murmur, without a cry; 
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off 

town, 
For one who had passed from cross to 

crown. 
And the neighbors wondered that she 

should die. 

1866. The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1866. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
(1809-1894) 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY" 
In the AthencBum Gallery 

Well, Miss, I wonder where you live, 

I wonder what's your name, 
I wonder how you came to be 

In such a stylish frame; 
Perhaps you were a favorite child, 

Perhaps an only one; 
Perhaps your friends were not aware 

You had your portrait done ! 

Yet you must be a harmless soul; 

I cannot think that Sin lo 

Would care to throw his loaded dice, 

With such a stake to win ; 
I cannot think you would provoke 

The poet's wicked pen. 
Or make young women bite their lips. 

Or ruin fine young men. 

Pray, did you ever hear, my love. 

Of boys that go about. 
Who, for a very trifling sum, 

Will snip one's picture out? 20 

I'm not averse to red and white. 

But all things have their place, 
I think a profile cut in black 

Would suit your style of face ! 

I love sweet features ; I will own 

That I should like myself 
To see my portrait on a wall, 

Or bust upon a shelf; 
But nature sometimes makes one up 

Of such sad odds and ends, 3° 

It really might be quite as well 

Hushed up among one's friends ! 

The Amateur, June 15, 1830. 

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTER- 
MAN 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the 

river-side, 
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat 

was on the tide; 



The daughter of a fisherman, that was so 
straight and slim. 

Lived over on the other bank, right oppo- 
site to him. 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a 

lovely maid. 
Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the 

shade; 
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as 

much as if to say, 
"I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and 

all the folks away." 

Then up arose the oysterman, and to 

himself said he, 
"I guess I '11 leave the skiff at home, for 

fear that folks should see; it> 

I read it in the story-book, that, for to 

kiss his dear, 
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will 

swim this here." 

And he has leaped into the waves, and 

crossed the shining stream, 
And he has clambered up the bank, all in 

the moonlight gleam; 
Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and 

words as soft as rain, — 
But they have heard her father's step, and 

in he leaps again ! 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — "Oh, 

what was that, my daughter?" 
" 'T was nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw 

into the water." 
"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that 

paddles ofif so fast?" 
" 'T is nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's 

been a-swimming past." 20 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — "Now 

bring me my harpoon ! 
I '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix the 

fellow soon." 
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a 

snow-white lamb. 
Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, 

like seaweed on a clam. 



421 



422 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Alas for those two loving ones ! she waked 

not from her swound, 
And he was taken with the cramp, and in 

the waves was drowned ; 
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity 

of their woe, 
And now they keep an oyster-shop for 

mermaids down below. 

The Amateur, July 17, 1830. 



THE MUSIC-GRINDERS 

There are three ways in which men take 

One's money from his purse, 
And very hard it is to tell 

Which of the three is worse; 
But all of them are bad enough 

To make a body curse. 

You 're riding out some pleasant day, 

And counting up your gains; 
A fellow jumps from out a bush, 

And takes your horse's reins, ^° 

Another hints some words about 

A bullet in your brains. 

It 's hard to meet such pressing friends 

In such a lonely spot ; 
It 's very hard to lose your cash. 

But harder to be shot; 
And so you take your wallet out, 

Though you would rather not. 

Perhaps you 're going out to dine, — 
Some odious creature begs ^o 

You '11 hear about the cannon-ball 
That carried off his pegs, _ 

And says it is a dreadful thing 
For men to lose their legs. 

He tells you of his starving wife, 

His children to be fed. 
Poor little, lovely innocents. 

All clamorous for bread, — 
And so you kindly help to put 

A bachelor to bed. 3o 

You 're sitting on your window-seat. 

Beneath a cloudless moon ; 
You hear a sound, that seems to wear 

The semblance of a tune. 
As if a broken fife should strive 

To drown a cracked bassoon. 

And nearer, nearer still, the tide 

Of music seems to come. 
There 's something like a human voice. 

And something like a drum; 40 



You sit in speechless agony, 
Until your ear is numb. 

Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to 
be 
A very dismal place; 
Your "auld acquaintance" all at once 

Is altered in the face; 
Their discords sting through Burns and 
Moore, 
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. 

You think they are crusaders, sent 

From some infernal clime, 5° 

To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 
And dock the tail of Rhyme, 

To crack the voice of Melody, 
And break the legs of Time. 

But hark ! the air again is still, 

The music all is ground. 
And silence, like a poultice, comes 

To heal the blows of sound; 
It cannot be, — it is, — it is, — 

A hat is going round ! ^ 

No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves 

A fracture in your jaw. 
And pay the owner of the bear 

That stunned you with his paw, 
And buy the lobster that has had 

Your knuckles in his claw ; 

But if you are a portly man, 

Put on your fiercest frown. 
And talk about a constable 

To turn them out of town; 7° 

Then close your sentence with an oath, 

And shut the window down ! 

And if you are a slender man, 

Not big enough for that. 
Or, if you cannot make a speech, 
^ Because you are a fiat. 
Go very quietly and drop 

A button in the hat ! 

New England Galaxy, 1830. 



OLD IRONSIDES 1 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high. 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky; 

* The "Constitution" was launched in 1797, 
served against the pirates in the Mediterranean, 
and became famous for her exploits in the War 
of 1812. She was almost entirely rebuilt in 1834 
and continued in commission until ISSl. See 
Freneau's "Ode on the Frigate Constitution," 
p. 115. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



423 



Beneath it rung the battle shout, 
And burst the cannon's roar; — 

The meteor of the ocean air 
Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, lo 

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below. 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave ; 20 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail. 
And give her to the god of storms. 

The lightning and the gale ! 

Boston Daily Advertiser, Sept. 16, 1830. 



THE LAST LEApi 

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door. 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime. 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 1° 

By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

* The poem was suggested by the sight of a 
figure well known to Bostonians [in 1831 or 
1832], that of Major Thomas Melville, "the last 
of the cocked hats," as he was sometimes called. 
The Major had been a personable young man, 
very evidently, and retained evidence of it in 

The monumental pomp of age — 

which had something imposing and something 
odd about it for youthful eyes like mine. He 
was often pointed at as one of the "Indians" of 
the famous "Boston Tea-Party" of 1774. His 
aspect among the crowds of a later generation 
reminded me of a withered leaf which has held 
to its stem through the storms of autumn and 
winter, and finds itself still clinging to its bough 
while the new growths of spring are bursting 
their buds and spreading their foliage all around 
it. {Author's Note.) 



But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan. 
And he shakes his feeble head. 
That it seems as if he said, 

"They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest ^ 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to -hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow; 3° 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff. 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here; 
But the old three-cornered hat, 4° 

And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring. 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

The Amateur, March 26, 1831. 



MY AUNT 

My aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 

Long years have o'er her flown ; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 

That binds her virgin zone; 
I know it hurts her, — though she looks 

As cheerful as she can; 
Her waist is ampler than her life. 

For life is but a span. 

My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! 

Her hair is almost gray; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

In such a spring-like way? 



424 



AMERICAN POETRY 



How can she lay her glasses down, 

And say she reads as well, 
When through a double convex lens 

She just makes out to spell? 

Her father — grandpapa ! forgive 

This erring lip its smiles — 
Vowed she should make the finest girl 

Within a hundred miles ; 20 

He sent her to a stylish school; 

'T was in her thirteenth June ; 
And with her, as the rules required, 

"Two towels and a spoon." 

They braced my aunt against a board. 

To make her straight and tall ; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small ; 
They pinched her feet, they singed her 
hair. 

They screwed it up with pins ; — 3° 

Oh, never mortal suffered more 

In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done. 

My grandsire brought her back 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 

Might follow on the track) ; 
"Ah !" said my grandsire, as he shook 

Some powder in his pan, 
"What could this lovely creature do 

Against a desperate man !" 4° 

Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

Nor bandit cavalcade, 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

His all-accomplished maid. 
For her how happy had it been ! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, ungathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 

(Buckingham's) New England Magazine, 
Oct., 1831. 



THE COMET 

The Comet ! He is on his way, 

And singing as he flies ; 
The whizzing planets shrink before 

The spectre of the skies ; 
Ah ! well may regal orbs burn blue. 

And satellites turn pale, 
Ten million cubic miles of head. 

Ten billion leagues of tail! 



On, on by whistling spheres of light 

He flashes and he flames; i" 

He turns not to the left nor right, 

He asks them not their names; 
One spurn from his demoniac heel, — 

Away, away they fly, 
Where darkness might be bottled up 

And sold for "Tyrian dye." 

And what would happen to the land. 

And how would look the sea, 
If in the bearded devil's path 

Our earth should chance to be? 20 

Full hot and high the sea would boil. 

Full red the forests gleam; 
Methought I saw and heard it all 

In a dyspeptic dream ! 

I saw a tutor take his tube 

The Comet's course to spy; 
I heard a scream, — the gathered rays 

Had stewed the tutor's eye ; 
I saw a fort, — the soldiers all 

Were armed with goggles green ; 3° 
Pop cracked the guns ! whiz flew the balls ! 

Bang went the magazine ! 

I saw a poet dip a scroll 

Each moment in a tub, 
I read upon the warping back, 

"The Dream of Beelzebub" ; 
He could not see his verses burn, 

Although his brain was fried, 
And ever and anon he bent 

To wet them as they dried. 4° 

I saw the scalding pitch roll down 

The crackling, sweating pines. 
And streams of smoke, like water-spouts. 

Burst through the rumbling mines; 
I asked the firemen why they made 

Such noise about the town ; 
They answered not, — but all the while 

The brakes went up and down. 

I saw a roasting pullet sit 

Upon a baking egg; so 

I saw a cripple scorch his hand 

Extinguishing his leg; 
I saw nine geese upon the wing 

Towards the frozen pole. 
And every mother's gosling fell 

Crisped to a crackling coal. 

I saw the ox that browsed the grass 

Writhe in the blistering rays, 
The herbage in his shrinking jaws 

Was all a fiery blaze; 60 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



425 



I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags, 
Bob through the bubbling brine; 

And thoughts of supper crossed my 
soul; 
I had been rash at mine. 

Strange sights ! strange sounds ! Oh fear- 
ful dream ! 

Its memory haunts me still. 
The steaming sea, the crimson glare. 

That wreathed each wooded hill; 
Stranger ! if through thy reeling brain 

Such midnight visions sweep, 7o 

Spare, spare, oh, spare thine evening 
meal. 

And sweet shall be thy sleep ! 

(Buckingham's) New England Magazine, 
April, 1832. 



A PORTRAIT 

A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, 

And slightly nonchalant, 
Which seems to claim a middle place 

Between one's love and aunt, 
Where childhood's star has left a ray 

In woman's sunniest sky, 
As morning dew and blushing day 

On fruit and blossom lie. 



And yet, — and yet I cannot love 

Those lovely lines on steel ; lo 

They beam too much of heaven above, 

Earth's darker shades to feel; 
Perchance some early weeds of care 

Around my heart have grown, 
And brows unfurrowed seem not fair,i 

Because they mock my own. 

Alas ! when Eden's gates were sealed. 

How oft some sheltered flower 
Breathed o'er the wanderers of the 
field, 

Like their own bridal bower; 20 

Yet, saddened by its loveliness, 

And humbled by its pride, 
Earth's fairest child they could not 
bless, — 

It mocked them when they sighed. 

The Token and Atlantic Souvenir, 1833. 

^ For a characterization of the Annuals like 
The Token and of the steel engravings in them, 
see the Life of N. P. Willis by H. A. Beers, pp. 
77-81. 



DAILY TRIALS 
By a Sensitive Man 

Oh, there are times 
When all this fret and tumult that we hear 
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's 
ear 

His own dull chimes. 

Ding dong! ding dong! 
The world is in a simmer like a sea 
Over a pent volcano, — woe is me 

All the day long! 

From crib to shroud ! 9 

Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby. 
And friends in boots tramp round us as 
we die. 

Snuffling aloud. 

At morning's call 
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in 

the sun, 
And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by' 
one. 
Give answer all. 

When evening dim 
Draws round us, then the lonely cater- 
waul. 
Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, — 

These are our hymn. 

Women, with tongues 
Like polar needles, ever on the jar; 
Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep 
fountains are 

Within their lungs. 

Children, with drums 
Strapped round them by the fond paternal 

ass; 
Peripatetics with a blade of grass 

Between their thumbs. 

Vagrants, whose arts 
Have caged some devil in their mad ma- 
chine, 30 
Which grinding, squeaks, with husky 
groans between. 
Come out by starts. 

Cockneys that kill 
Thin horses of a Sunday, — men, with 

clams, 
Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their 
dams 
From hill to hill. 



426 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Soldiers, with guns, 
Making a nuisance of the blessed air, 
Child-crying bellmen, children in despair, 

Screeching for buns. 4° 

Storms, thunders, waves ! 
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your 

fill; 
Ye sometimes rest ; men never can be 
still 
But in their graves. 

(Buckingham's) New England Magazine, 
May (?), 1833. 



From POETRY: 

A Metrical Essay, Read before the Phi Beta 
Kappa Societv, Harvard University, August, 
1836.^ 

To Charles Wentworth Upham, the following 
Metrical Essay is Affectionately Inscribed. 

From the Introduction. 

There breathes no being but has some 

pretence 
To that fine instinct called poetic sense; 
The rudest savage, roaming through the 

wild; 
The simplest rustic, bending o'er his 

child ; 

^ This Academic Poem presents the simple and 
partial views of a young person trained after 
the schools of classical English verse as repre- 
sented by Pope, Goldsmith, and Campbell, with 
whose lines his memory was early stocked. It 
will be observed that it deals chiefly with the 
constructive side of the poet's function. That 
which makes him a poet is not the power of 
writing melodious rhymes, it is not the posses- 
sion of ordinary human sensibilities nor even of 
both these qualities in connection with each 
other. I should rather say, if I were now called 
upon to define it, it is the power of transfigur- 
ing the experiences and shows of life into an 
aspect which comes from his imagination and 
kindles that of others. Emotion is its stimulus 
and language furnishes its expression; but these 
are not all, as some might infer was the doc- 
trine of the poem before the reader. 

A common mistake made by young persoris 
who suppose themselves to have poetical gift is 
that their own spiritual exaltation finds a true 
expression in the conventional phrases which are 
borrowed from the voices of the singers whose 
inspiration they think they share. 

Looking at this poem as an expression of some 
aspects of the ars poetica, with some passages 
which I can read even at this mature period of 
life without blushing for them, it may stand as 
the most serious representation of my early ef- 
forts. Intended as it was for public delivery, 
many of its paragraphs may betray the fact by 
their somewhat rhetorical and sonorous charac- 
ter. {Author's Note.) 



The infant, listening to the warbling bird; 
The mother, smiling at its half-formed 

word; 
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields at 

large ; 
The girl, turned matron to her babe-like 

charge ; 
The freeman, casting with unpurchased 

hand 
The vote that shakes the turret of the 

land ; 1° 

The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted 

chain. 
Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning 

plain; 
The hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down 

the wine, 
To join the chorus pealing "Auld lang 

syne" ; 
The gentle maid, whose azure e3'e grows 

dim, 
While Heaven is listening to her even- 
ing hymn ; 
The jewelled beauty, when her steps draw 

near 
The circling dance and dazzling chande- 
lier; 
E'en trembling age, when Spring's renew- 
ing air 
Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered 

hair ; — 20 

All, all are glowing with the inward 

flame. 
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's 

name, 
While, unembalmed, the silent dreamer 

dies. 
His memory passing with his smiles and 

sighs ! 

If glorious visions, born for all man- 
kind. 

The bright auroras of out twilight mind ; 

If fancies, varying as the shapes that He 

Stained on the windows of the sunset 
sky; 

If hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams, 

Till the eye dances in the void of dreams ; 

If passions, following with the winds that 
urge 31 

Earth's wildest wanderer to her farthest 
verge ;— ; 

If these on all some transient hours be- 
stow 

Of rapture tingling with its hectic glow, 

Then all are poets; and if earth had 
rolled 

Her myriad centuries, and her doom were 
told, 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



427 



Each moaning billow of her shoreless 

wave 
Would wail its requiem o'er a poet's 

grave ! 

If to embody in a breathing word 
Tones that the spirit trembled when it 

heard ; 4° 

To fix the image all unveiled and warm, 
And carve in language its ethereal form, 
So pure, so perfect, that the lines express 
No meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess ; 
To feel that art, in living truth, has taught 
Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured 

thought; — 
If this alone bestow the right to claim 
The deathless garland and the sacred 

name, 
Then none are poets save the saints on 

high, 
Whose harps can murmur all that words 

deny ! so 

But though to none is granted to reveal 
In perfect semblance all that each may 

feel, 
As withered flowers recall forgotten love, 
So, warmed to life, our faded passions 

move 
In every line, where kindling fancy throws 
The gleam of pleasures or the shade of 

woes. 

When, schooled by time, the stately 

queen of art 
Had smoothed the pathways leading to 

the heart, 
Assumed her measured tread, her solemn 

tone. 
And round her courts the clouds of fable 

thrown, 60 

The wreaths of heaven descended on her 

shrine, 
And wondering earth proclaimed the 

Muse divine. 
Yet if her votaries had but dared profane 
The mystic symbols of her sacred reign. 
How had they smiled beneath the veil to 

find 
What slender threads can chain the 

mighty mind ! 

Poets, like painters, their machinery 

claim. 

And verse bestows the varnish and the 

frame ; 
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar 

Shakes the racked axle of Art's rattling 

car, 70 



Fits like mosaic in the lines that gird 
Fast in its place each many-angled word; 
From Saxon lips Anacreon's numbers 

glide. 
As once they melted on the Teian tide, 
And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills 

again 
From Albion's cliffs as o'er Achaia's plain ! 
The proud heroic, with its pulse-like beat, 
Rings like the cymbals clashing as they 

meet; 
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows, 
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close, 80 
Where waves on waves in long succession 

pour. 
Till the ninth billow melts along the 

shore; 
The lonely spirit of the mournful lay, 
Which lives immortal as the verse of 

Gray, 
In sable plumage slowly drifts along, 
On eagle pinion, through the air of song; 
The glittering lyric bounds elastic by. 
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye. 
While every image, in her airy whirl, 89 
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing girl ! 

Born with mankind, with man's ex- 
panded range 
And varying fates the poet's numbers 

change ; 
Thus in his history may we hope to find 
Some clearer epochs of the poet's mind. 
As from the cradle of its birth we trace. 
Slow wandering forth, the patriarchal 
race. 

August, 1836. 



. "QUI VIVE?" 

"Qui Vive?" The sentry's musket rings. 

The channelled bayonet gleams ; 
High o'er him, like a raven's wings 
The broad tricolored banner flings 
Its shadow, rustling as it swings 

Pale in the moonlight beams ; 
Pass on ! while steel-clad sentries keep 
Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep, 

Thy bare, unguarded breast 
Asks not the unbroken, bristling tone 1° 
That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne ; 

Pass on, and take thy rest ! 

"Qui vive?" How oft the midnight air 

That startling cry has borne ! 
How oft the evening breeze has fanned 
The banner of this haughty land, 
O'er mountain snow and desert land, 
Ere yet its folds were torn ! 



428 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Through Jena's carnage flying red, 

Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead, 20 

Or curling on the towers 
Where Austria's eagle quivers yet, 
And suns the ruffled plumage, wet 

With battle's crimson showers ! 

"Qui vivef" And is the sentry's cry, — 

The sleepless soldier's hand,— 
Are these — the painted folds that fly 
And lift their emblems, printed high 
On morning mist and sunset sky — 

The guardians of a land? 3° 

No! If the patriot's pulses sleep. 
How vain the watch that hirelings keep, — 

The idle flag that waves. 
When Conquest, with his iron heel, 
Treads down the standards and the steel 

That belt the soil of slaves ! 

American Monthly Magazine, Nov., 1836. 



From A RHYMED LESSON 1 

(Urania.) 

Introduction. 

Yes, dear Enchantress, — wandering far 

and long, 
In realms unperfumed by the breath of 

song. 
Where flowers ill-flavored shed their 

sweets around. 
And bitterest roots invade the ungenial 

ground, 
Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom 

mine. 
Whose vineyards flow with antimonial 

wine. 
Whose gates admit no mirthful feature in. 
Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin. 
Whose pangs are real, not the woes of 

rhyme 
That blue-eyed misses warble out of 

time.; — _ 10 

Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim. 
Older by reckoning, but in heart the same. 
Freed for a moment from the chains of 

toil, 
I tread once more thy consecrated soil; 
Here at thy feet my old allegiance own, 
Thy subject still, and loyal to thy throne! 

My dazzled glance explores the crowded 
hall ; 
Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all ! 

^ This poem was delivered before the Boston 
Mercantile Library Association, October 14, 1846. 



I know my audience. All the gay and 

young 19 

Love the light antics of a playful tongue; 
And these, remembering some expansive 

line 
My lips let loose among the nuts and 

wine, 
Are all impatience till the opening pun 
Proclaims the witty shamfight is begun. 
Two-fifths at least, if not the total half. 
Have come infuriate for an earthquake 

laugh ; 
I know full well what alderman has tied 
His red bandanna tight about his side; 
1 see the mother, who, aware that boys 
Perform their laughter with superfluous 

noise, 3° 

Beside her kerchief brought an extra one 
To stop the explosions of her bursting son; 
I know a tailor, once a friend of mine 
Expects great doings in the button line, — 
For mirth's concussions rip the outward 

case. 
And plant the stitches in a tenderer place, 
I know my audience, — these shall have 

their due; 
A smile awaits them ere my song is 

through ! 

I know myself. Not servile for ap- 
plause, 39 

My Muse permits no deprecating clause; 

Modest or vain, she will not be denied 

One bold confession due to honest pride ; 

And well she knows the drooping veil of 
song 

Shall save her boldness from the caviller's 
wrong. 

Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid 
imparts 

To tell the secrets of our aching hearts : 

For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, 
bound. 

She kneels imploring at the feet of sound ; 

For this, convulsed in thought's maternal 
pains, 

She loads her arms with rhyme's re- 
sounding chains; so 

Faint though the music of her fetters be. 

It lends one charm, — her lips are ever 
free! 

Think not I come, in manhood's fiery 
noon, 

To steal his laurels from the stage buf- 
foon ; 

His sword of lath the harlequin may 
wield ; 

Behold the star upon my lifted shield ! 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



429 



Though the just critic pass my humble 
name, 

And sweeter lips have drained the cup of 
fame, 

While my gay stanza pleased the ban- 
quet's lords. 

The soul within was tuned to deeper 
chords ! 60 

Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts 
taught 

To swing aloft the ponderous mace of 
thought. 

Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law. 

Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tickling 
straw ? 

Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling 
spear 

The pure, warm hearts that bid me wel- 
come here? 

No ! while I wander through the land of 
dreams. 

To strive with great and play with tri- 
fling themes. 

Let some kind meaning fill the varied line. 

You have your judgment; will you trust 
to mine? 7° 

1846. 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL 1 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells 

of good old times. 
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and 

merry Christmas chimes; 
They were a free and jovial race, but 

honest, brave, and true, 
Who dipped their ladle in the punch 

when this old bowl was new. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so 

runs the ancient tale; 
'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, 

whose arm was like a flail; 
And now and then between the strokes, 

for fear his strength should fail. 
He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of 

good old Flemish ale. 

'T was purchased by an English squire to 

please his loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a 

longing for the same; 1° 

^ This "punch-bowl" was, according to old 
family tradition, a caudle-cup. It is a massive 
piece of silver, with cherubs and other ornaments 
of coarse repousse work, and has two handles 
like a loving-cup, by which it was held, or passed 
from guest to guest. {Author's Note.) 



And oft as on the ancient stock another 

twig was found, 
'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, 

and handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length 
a Puritan divine. 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take 
a little wine, 

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it 
was, perhaps. 

He went to Leyden, where he found con- 
venticles and schnapps. 

And then, of course, you know what 's 

next : it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, — 

a hundred souls and more, — 
Along with all the furniture, to fill their 

new abodes, — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least 

a hundred loads. 20 

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night 

was closing dim. 
When brave Miles Standish took the 

bowl, and filled it to the brim; 
The little Captain stood and stirred tha 

posset with his sword. 
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were 

ranged about the board. 

He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the 

man that never feared, — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and 

wiped his yellow beard; 
And one by one the musketeers — the men 

that fought and prayed — 
All drank as 't were their mother's milk, 

and not a man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the 

screaming eagle flew. 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the 

soldier's wild halloo; 3° 

And there the sachem learned the rule he 

taught to kith and kin : 
"Run from the white man when you find 

he smells of Holland's gin !" 

A hundred years, and fifty more, had 

spread their leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened down each 

little cherub's nose. 
When once again the bowl was filled, but 

not in mirth or joy, — 
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to 

cheer her parting boy. 



430 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good, 

— poor child, you'll never bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in 

the midnight air; 
And if — God bless me ! — you were hurt, 

't would keep away the chill. 
So John did drink, — and well he wrought 

that night at Bunker's Hill! 40 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in 

good old English cheer; 
I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to 

bring its symbol here. 
'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast 

thou a drunken soul? 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in 

my silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past, — its 

pressed yet fragrant flowers, — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls, 

the ivy on its towers ; 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, — 

my eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanished joys that 

danced around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear 

it straight to me ; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er 

the liquid be; so 

And may the cherubs on its face protect 

me from the sin 
That dooms one to those dreadful words, 

— "My dear, where have you been?" 

"Poems," 1849. 



THE STETHOSCOPE SONG 

There was a young man in Boston town. 
He bought him a stethoscope nice and 
new. 
All mounted and finished and polished 
down, 
With an ivory cap and a stopper too. 

It happened a spider within did crawl, 
And spun him a web of ample size, 

Wherein there chanced one day to fall 
A couple of very imprudent flies. 

The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue. 
The second was smaller, and thin and 
long; 10 

So there was a concert between the two. 
Like an octave flute and a tavern gong. 



Now being from Paris but recently, 
This fine young man would show his 
skill; 

And so they gave him, his hand to try, 
A hospital patient extremely ill. 

Some said that his Iher was short of bile, 
And some that his heart was over size. 

While some kept arguing, all the while. 
He was crammed with tubercles up to 
his eyes. 20 

This fine young man then up stepped he, 
And all the doctors made a pause; 

Said he. The man must die, you see. 
By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws. 

But since the case is a desperate one. 
To explore his chest it may be well; 

For if he should die and it were not done, 
You know the autopsy would not tell. 

Then out his stethoscope he took. 
And on it placed his curious ear ; 30 

Mon Dieu! said he, with a knowing look, 
Why, here is a sound that's mighty 
queer ! 

The bourdonnement is very clear, — 
Amphoric buzzing, as I'm alive ! 

Five doctors took their turn to hear; 
Amphoric buzzing, said all the five. 

There's empyema beyond a doubt ; 

We'll plunge a trocar in his side. 
The diagnosis was made out, — 

They tapped the patient; so he died. 4° 

Now such as hate new-fashioned toys 

Began to look extremely glum ; 
They said that rattles were made for 
boys, 
And vowed that his buzzing was all a 
hum. 

There was an old lady had long been 
sick. 
And what was the matter none did 
know : 
Her pulse was slow, though her tongue 
was quick; 
To her this knowing youth must go. 

So there the nice old lady sat. 

With phials and boxes all in a row ; so 
She asked the young doctor what he was 
at. 
To thump her and tumble her ruffles 
so. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



431 



Now, when the stethoscope came out, 
The flies began to buzz and whiz : 

Oh ho ! the matter is clear, no doubt ; 
An aneurism there plainly is. 

The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie 
And the bruit de diable are all com- 
bined; 

How happy Bouillaud would be, 

If he a case like this could find ! 60 

Now, when the neighboring doctors found 
A case so rare had been descried, 

They every day her ribs did pound 
In squads of twenty; so she died. 

Then six young damsels, slight and frail, 
Received this kind young doctor's cares ; 

They all were getting slim and pale, 
And short of breath on mounting stairs. 

They all made rhymes with "sighs" and 
"skies," 
And loathed their puddings and but- 
tered rolls, 70 
And dieted, much to their friends' sur- 
prise, 
On pickles and pencils and chalk and 
coals. 

So fast their little hearts did bound, 
The frightened insects buzzed the more ; 

So over all their chests he found 
The rale sifflant and the rale sonore. 

He shook his head. There's grave dis- 
ease, — 

I greatly fear you all must die; 
A slight post-mortem, if you please, 

Surviving friends would gratify. 80 

The six young damsels wept aloiid, 
Which so prevailed on six young men 

That each his honest love avowed, 
Whereat they all got well again. 

This poor young man was all aghast; 

The price of stethoscopes came down; 
And so he was reduced at last 

To practice in a country town. 

The doctors being very sore, 

A stethoscope they did devise 90 

That had a rammer to clear the bore. 

With a knob at the end to kill the flies. 

Now use your ears, all you that can. 

But don't forget to mind your eyes. 
Or you may be cheated, like this young 
man, 
By a couple of silly, abnormal flies. 

1848. 



LEXINGTON 

Slowly 'the mist o'er the meadow was 
creeping, 
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the 
sun, 
When from his couch, while his children 
were sleeping. 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his 
gun. 
Waving her golden veil 
Over the silent dale. 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and 
spire ; 
Hushed was his parting sigh. 
While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of hberty's fire. 1° 

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf 
is springing 
Calmly the first-born of glory have met, 
Hark ! the death- volley around them is 
ringing ! 
Look ! with their life-blood the young 
grass is wet ! 
Faint is the feeble breath. 
Murmuring low in death, 
"Tell to our sons how their fathers have 
died" ; 
Nerveless the iron hand. 
Raised for its native land. 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its 
side. 20 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling. 
From their far hamlets the yeomanry 
come; 
As through the storm-clouds the thunder- 
burst rolling, 
Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 
Fast on the soldier's path 
Darken the waves of wrath, — 
Long have they gathered and loud shall 
they fall; 
Red glares the musket's flash, 
Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
Blazing and clanging from thicket and 
wall. 30 

Gayly the plume of the horseman was 
dancing, 
Never to shadow his cold brow again; 
Proudly at morning the war-steed was 
prancing, 
Reeking and panting he droops on the 
rein; 
Pale is the lip of scorn, 
Voiceless the trumpet horn, 



432 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on 
high; 
Many a belted breast 
Low on the turf shall rest 
Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed 
by. 40 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind 
is raving, 
Rocks where the weary floods murmur 
and wail, 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is 
waving. 
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the 
gale ; 
Far as the tempest thrills 
Over the darkened hills, 
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain. 
Roused by the tyrant band, 
Woke all the mighty land, 49 

Girded for battle, from mountain to main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs 
are lying! 
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to 
their rest. 
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying 
Wraps the proud eagle they roused 
from his nest. 
Borne on her Northern pine, 
Long o'er the foaming brine 
Spread her broad banner to storm and to 
sun; 
Heaven keep her ever free. 
Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have 
won ! 60 

"Poems," 1849. 



LATTER-DAY WARNINGS 1 

When legislators keep the law, 

W'hen banks dispense with bolts and 
locks. 
When berries — whortle, rasp and straw — 
Grow bigger dow)iwards through the 
box, — 

^ From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, 
where it is introduced by: 

"I should have felt more nervous about the 
late comet, if I had thought the world v\'a"s ripe. 
But it is very green yet, if I am not mistaken. 

. ■ . If certain things, which seem to me es- 
sential to a millennium, had come to pass, I 
should have been frightened; but they haven't." 
The Second Adventists were, active and numer- 
ous in Boston in the middle of the Nineteenth 
Century. Their prominent church building has 
since become notorious as a cheap variety show 
house. 



When he that selleth house or land 
Shows leak in roof or flaw in right, 

When haberdashers choose the stand 
Whose window hath the broadest 
light,— 

When preachers tell us all they think, 
And party leaders all they mean, — 10 

When what we pay for, that we drink, 
From real grape and coffee-bean, — 

When lawyers take what they would give. 
And doctors give what they would 
take. — 
When city fathers eat to live. 

Save when they fast for conscience' 
sake, — 

When one that hath a horse on sale 
Shall bring his merit to the proof, 

Without a lie for every nail 

That holds the iron on the hoof, — 20 

When in the usual place for rips 
Our gloves are stitched with special care, 

And guarded well the whalebone tips 
Where first umbrellas need repair, — 

\Mien Cuba's weeds have quite forgot 
The power of suction to resist. 

And claret-bottles harbor not 

Such dimples as would hold your fist, — ■ 

When publishers no longer steal. 
And pay for what they stole before, — 30 

When the first locomotive's wheel 

Rolls through the Hoosac Tunnel's 
bore ; — 

Till then let Gumming blaze away. 
And Miller's saints blow up the globe; 

But when you see that blessed day, 
Tlien order your ascension robe ! 

Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1857. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 1 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets 
feign. 
Sails the unshadowed main, — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled 
wings 

1 From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 

"If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater 
Treatise you will find a figure of one of these 
shells and a section of it. The last will show 
you the series of enlarging compartments suc- 
cessively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits 
the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. 
Can you find no lesson in this?" 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



433 



In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren 

sings, 
And coral reefs He bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 

streaming hair. 



Its webs of living gauze no more un- 
furl; 
Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
And every chambered cell, lo 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 

dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing 
shell, 
Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
unsealed ! 



Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil ; 
Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the 

new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway 
through, 
Built up its idle door, 20 

Stretched in_ his last-found home, and 
knew the* old no more. 



Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
by thee. 
Child of the wandering sea. 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is 

born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed 
horn ! 
While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear 
a voice that sings : — 



Build thee more stately mansions, O my 
soul. 
As the swift seasons roll! 3° 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the 

last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
vast, 
Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's un- 
resting sea ! 

The Atlantic Monthly, Feb., 1858. 



CONTENTMENT 1 

"Man wants but little here below." 

Little I ask; my wants are few; 

I only wish a hut of stone 
(A very plain brown stone will do) 

That I may call my own ; — 
And close at hand is such a one. 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me; 

Three courses are as good as ten; — 
If Nature can subsist on three. 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 1° 
I always thought cold victual nice; — 
My choice would be vanilla-ice. 

I care not much for gold or land ; — 
. Give me a mortgage here and there, — 
Some good bank-stock, some note of 
hand, 
Or trifling railroad share, — 
I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know. 

And titles are but empty names; 20 

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 

But only near St. James; 
I'm very sure I should not care 
To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels are baubles ; 't is a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things; — 

One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 
Some, not so large, in rings, — 

A ruby, and a pearl, or so. 

Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. 3° 

My dame should dress in cheap attire 
(Good, heavy silks are never dear) ; — 

I own perhaps I might desire 

Some shawls of true Cashmere, — 

Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 

Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 
So fast that folks must stop and stare; 

An easy gait — two forty-five — 

Suits me ; I do not care ; — 4° 

Perhaps, for just a single spurt, 

Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

1 From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 

"I think you will be willing to hear some lines 
which embody the subdued and limited desires 
of maturity." This cannot fail to be associated 
with Thoreau's statement of his "subdued and 
limited desires"_ embodied in "Walden" published 
four years earlier. 



434 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Of pictures, I should like to own 
Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 

I love so much their style and tone. 
One Turner, and no more 

(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — 

The sunshine painted with a squirt). 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear; so 

The rest upon an upper floor; — 
Some little luxury there 

Of red morocco's gilded gleam 

And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as 
these. 

Which others often show for pride, 
/ value for their power to please. 

And selfish churls deride ; — 
One Stradivarius, I confess, 59 

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 

Shall not carved tables serve my turn. 
But all must be of buhl? 

Give grasping pomp its double share, — 

I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die. 
Nor long for Midas' golden touch ; 

If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
I shall not miss them much, — 7° 

Too grateful for the blessing lent 

Of simple tastes and mind content ! 

Atlantic Monthly, Sept., 1858. 



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE i 
or, The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay." 

A LOGICAL STORY 

Have you heard of the wonderful one- 

hoss shay, 
That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day. 
And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 
I '11 tell you what happened without de- 
lay. 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their wits, — 
Have you ever heard of that, I say? 

* From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 
In connection with this see Holmes's essay on 
Jonathan Edwards — particularly the latter por- 
tion — in "Pages from an Old Volume of Life." 



Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — i" 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss 
shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you 

what, 
There is always somewhere a weakest 

spot, — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, ^o 
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking 

still, 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — 
Above or below, or within or without, — 
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
That a chaise breaks down, but does n't 

wear out. 

But the Deacon swore (as deacons do. 
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou") 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 3o 
It should be so built that it could n' break 

daown : 
"Fur," said the Deacon, " 't 's mighty 

plain 
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the 

strain ; 
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain. 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village 

folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak. 
That could n't be split nor bent nor 

broke, — ■ 
That was for spokes and floor and sills ; 4o 
He sent for lancewood to make the thills; 
The crossbars were ash, from the 

straightest trees, 
The panels of white- wood, that cuts like 

cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like these; 
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's el- 

lum," — 
Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 

'em. 
Never an axe had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between their 

lips. 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



435 



Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 5° 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he "put her through." 
"There !" said the Deacon, "naow she '11 
dew !" 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 6o 
Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
Children and grandchildren — where were 

they? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss 

shay 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen hundred; — it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece • strong and 

sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — 
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
Running as usual; much the same. 7° 

Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
Without both feeling and looking queer. 
In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its 

youth. 
So f ar_ as I know, but a tree and truth. 
(This is a moral that runs at large; 
Take it. — You 're welcome. — No extra 

charge.) 

First of November^ — the eatthquake- 

day, — So 

There are traces of age in the one-hoss 

shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, 
But nothing local, as one may say. 
There could n't be, — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there was n't a chance for one to 

start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as 

the thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the 

sills. 
And the panels just as strong as the floor. 
And the whipple-tree neither less nor 

more, 9° 

And the back crossbar as strong as the 

fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 



And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five! 
This morning the parson takes a drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
"Huddup!" said the parson. — Off went 

they. 100 

The parson was working his Sunday's 

text,— 
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
All at once the horse stood still. 
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
First a shiver, and then a thrill. 
Then something decidedly like a spill, — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house 

clock, — 109 

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! 
What do you think the parson found. 
When he got up and stared around? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. 
As if it had been to the mill and ground! 
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce. 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay 
Logic is logic. That 's all I say. 120 

Atlantic Monthly, Sept., 1858. 



THE VOICELESS 1 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slum- 
ber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild-flowers who will stoop to 
number? 
A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them : — 
Alas for those that never sing. 

But die with all their music in them! 

^^From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 

"Read what the singing-women — one to ten 
thousand of the suflfering women — tell us, and 
think of the griefs that die unspoken! Nature 
is in earnest when she makes a woman; and 
there are women enough lying in the next church- 
yard with very commonplace blue slate-stones at 
their head and feet, for whom it was just as 
true that 'all sounds of life assumed one tone 
of love' as for Letitia Landon, of whom Eliza- 
beth Browning said it; but she could give words 
to her grief, and they could not." 



436 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad 

story,— '*' 

Weep for the voiceless, v^^ho have known 

The cross vi^ithout the crown of glory! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pil- 
low. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing 
presses, — ^ 

If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 

The Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1858. 



THE BOYSi 

Has there any old fellow got mixed with 
the boys? 

If there has, take him out, without mak- 
ing a noise. 

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Cata- 
logue's spite ! 

Old Time is a liar! We 're twenty to- 
night ! 

We 're twenty ! We 're twenty ! Who says 

we are more? 
He 's tipsy, — young jackanapes! — show 

him the door! 
"Gray temples at twenty ?"— Yes ! white 

if we please ; 
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest 

there 's nothing can freeze! 

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the 

mistake ! 
Look close, — ^you will see not a sign of 

a flake ! ^° 

We want some new garlands for those we 

have shed, — 
And these are white roses in place of the 

red. 

We 've a trick, we young fellows, you 

may have been told, 
Of talking (in public) as if we were 

old:— 

* For the reunion of the famous Harvard class 
of 1829. From 1851 to 1889 Holmes brought his 
annual poem to the reunion. 



That boy we call "Doctor," and this we 

call "Judge" ; ^ 
It 's a neat little fiction,— of course it 's all 

fudge. 

That fellow 's the "Speaker," 3— the one 

on the right; 
"Mr. Mayor," * my young one, how are 

you to-night? 
That 's our "Member of Congress," ^ we 

say when we chaff; 
There 's the "Reverend" *5 What 's his 

name? — don't make me laugh. 20 

That boy with the grave mathematical 
look 7 

Made believe he had written a wonder- 
ful book, 

And the Royal Society thought it was 
true ! 

So they chose him right in; a good joke 
it was, too ! 

There 's a boy, we pretend, with a three- 
decker brain, ^ 

That could harness a team with a logical 
chain ; 

When he spoke for our manhood in syl- 
labled fire. 

We called him "The Justice," but now 
he 's "The Squire." 

And there 's a nice youngster of excellent 

pith,— 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him 

Smith ; » 3o 

But he shouted a song for the brave and 

the free, — 
Just read on his medal, "My country," 

"of thee !" 

You hear that boy laughing?— You think 

he 's all fun ; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he 

has done; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to 

his call, 
And the poor man that knows him laughs 

loudest of all! 

2 George T. Bigelow, Chief-justice of Massa- 
chusetts. 

^ Hon. Francis B. Crowninshield, Speaker of 
the Massachusetts House of Representatives. 

* G. W. Richardson, of Worcester, Mass. 

■> Hon. George L. Davis. 

" James Freeman Clarke. 

' Prof. Benjamin Peirce. 

8 B. R. Curtis, Justice of the United States 
Supreme Court. 

» S. F. Smith, the author of "America." 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



437 



Yes, we 're boys, — always playing with 
tongue or with pen, — 

And I sometimes have asked, — Shall we 
ever be men? 

Shall we always be youthful, and laugh- 
ing, and gay, 

Till the last dear companion drops smiling 
away ? 4° 

Then here 's to our boyhood, its gold and 
its gray! 

The stars of its winter, the dews of its 
May ! 

And when we have done with our life- 
lasting toys, 

Dear Father, take care of thy children, 
THE Boys ! 



1859. 



Atlantic Monthly, Feb., 1859. 



AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS 
August 2g, 1859 1 

I remember — why, yes ! God bless me ! 

and was it so long ago? 
I fear I'm growing forgetful, as old folks 

do, you know ; 
It must have been in 'forty — I would say 

'thirty-nine — 
We talked this matter over, I and a friend 

of mine. 

He said, "Well now, old fellow, I 'm 

thinking that you and I, 
If we act like other people, shall be older 

by and by; 
What though the bright blue ocean is 

smooth as a pond can be, 
There is always a line of breakers to 

fringe the broadest sea. 

"We 're taking it mighty easy, but that is 

nothing strange. 
For up to the age of thirty we spend our 

years like change; ^° 

But creeping up towards the forties, as 

fast as the old years fill, 
And Time steps in for payment, we seem 

to change a bill." 

"I know it," I said, "old fellow; you 
speak the solemn truth; 

A man can't live to a hundred and like- 
wise keep his youth; 

* Holmes's fiftieth birthday. 



But what if the ten years coming shall 

silver-streak my hair, 
You know I shall then be forty; of course 

I shall not care. 

"At forty a man grows heavy and tired 

of fun and noise; 
Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and 

love to the silly boys ; 
No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching of 

waists and toes. 
But high-low shoes and flannels and good 

thick worsted hose." 20 

But one fine August morning I found my- 
self awake : 

My birthday : — By Jove, I 'm forty ! Yes, 
forty and no mistake ! 

Why, this is the very milestone, I think I 
used to hold, 

That when a fellow had come to, a fellow 
would then be old ! 

But that is the young folks' nonsense; 

they 're full of their foolish stuff; 
A man 's in his- prime at forty, — I see that 

plain enough ; 
At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be 

bald or gray; 
I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they 

say. 

At last comes another August with mist 

and rain and shine; 
Its mornings are slowly counted and creep 

to twenty-nine, 3° 

And when on the western summits the 

fading light appears. 
It touches with rosy fingers the last of my 

fifty years. 

There have been both men and women 

whose hearts were firm and bold, 
But there never was one of fifty that 

loved to say "I 'm old"; 
So any elderly person that strives to 

shirk his years, 
Make him stand up at a table and try 

him by his peers. 

Now here I stand at fifty, my jury gath- 
ered round; 

Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not yet 
silver-crowned, 

Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to 
hear it told; 

Guilty of fifty summers ; speak ! Is the 
verdict oldf 4o 



438 



AMERICAN POETRY 



No ! say that his hearing fails him ; say 

that his sight grows dim ; 
Say that he 's getting wrinkled and weak 

in back and limb, 
Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, 

to make amends. 
The youth of his fifty summers he finds 

in his twenty friends. 

1859. The Atlantic Monthly, Aug., 1859. 



HYMN OF TRUST 

O Love Divine, that stooped to share 
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear. 

On Thee we cast each earth-born care. 
We smile at pain while Thou art near ! 

Though long the weary way we tread. 
And sorrow crown each lingering year. 

No path we shun, no darkness dread, 
Our hearts still whispering. Thou art 
near ! 

When drooping pleasure turns to grief, 9 
And trembling faith is changed to fear, 

The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, 
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! 

On Thee we fling our burdening woe, 
O Love Divine, forever dear. 

Content to suffer while we know, 
Living and dying. Thou art near ! 

Atlantic Monthly, Nov., 1859. 



A SUN-DAY HYMN 

Lord of all being! throned afar, 
Thy glory flames from sun and star; 
Centre and soul of every sphere. 
Yet to each loving heart how near ! 

Sun of our life, thy quickening ray 
Sheds on our path the glow of day; 
Star of our hope, thy softened light 
Cheers the long watches of the night. 

Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn ; 
Our noontide is thy gracious dawn ; lo 
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign; 
All, save the clouds of sin, are thine! 

Lord of all life, below, above, 

Whose light is truth, whose warmth is 

love. 
Before thy ever-blazing throne 
We ask no lustre of our own. 



Grant us thy truth to make U3 free. 
And kindling hearts that burn for thee, 
Till all thy living altars claim 
One holy light, one heavenly flame ! 20 

Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1859. 



MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF 
HARVARD COLLEGE 

I thank you, Mr. President, you 've kindly 

broke the ice; 
Virtue should always be the first, — I 'm 

only Second Vice — 
(A vice is something with a screw that 's 

made to hold its jaw 
Till some old file has played away upon 

an ancient saw). 

Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, the 

babes of days gone by. 
All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose 

milk is never dry. 
We come again, like half-grown boys, and 

gather at her beck 
About her knees, and on her lap, and 

clinging round her neck. 

We find her at her stately door, and in 

her ancient chair. 
Dressed in the robes of red and green 

she always loved to wear. 10 

Her eye has all its radiant youth, her 

cheek its morning flame ; 
We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish 

still the same. 

We have been playing many an hour, and 

far away we 've strayed. 
Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some 

lingering in the shade ; 
And some' have tired, and laid them down 

where darker shadows fall, — 
Dear as her loving voice may be, they 

cannot hear its call. 

What miles we 've travelled since we 

shook the dew-drops from our shoes 
We gathered on this classic green, so 

famed for heavy dues ! 
How many boys have joined the game, 

how many slipped away. 
Since we 've been running up and down, 

and having out our play ! 20 

One boy at work with book and brief, 
and one with gown and band, 

One sailing vessels on the pool, one dig- 
ging in the sand, 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



439 



One flying paper kites on change, one 

planting little pills, — 
The seeds of certain annual flowers well 

known as little bills. 

What maidens met us on our way, and 

clasped us hand in hand ! 
What cherubs, — not the legless kind, that 

fly, but never stand ! 
How many a youthful head we 've seen 

put on its silver crown ! 
What sudden changes back again to 

youth's empurpled brown ! 

But fairer sights have met our eyes, and 

broader lights have shone, 
Since others lit their midnight lamps 

where once we trimmed our own; 30 
A thousand trains that flap the sky with 

flags of rushing fire. 
And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, 

Thought's million-chorded lyre. 

We 've seen the sparks of Empire fly be- 
yond the mountain bars. 

Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, they 
joined the setting stars; 

And ocean trodden into paths that 
trampling giants ford, 

To find the planet's vertebrae and sink its 
spinal cord. 

We 've tried reform, — and chloroform, — 

and both have turned our brain ; 
When France called up the photograph, 

we roused the foe to pain ; 
Just so those earlier sages shared the 

chaplet of renown, — 
Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours 

brought their lightning down. 4° 

We 've seen the little tricks of life, its 

varnish and veneer. 
Its stucco-fronts of character flake off 

and disappear. 
We 've learned that oft the brownest 

hands will heap the biggest pile. 
And met with many a "perfect brick" 

beneath a rimless "tile." 

What dreams we 've had of deathless 

name, as scholars, statesmen, bards. 
While Fame, the lady with the trump, 

held up her picture cards ! 
Till, having nearly played our game, she 

gayly whispered, "Ah ! 
J I said you should be something grand, — 

you '11 soon be grandpa." 



Well, well, the old have had their day, 

the young must take their turn ; 
There 's something always to forget, and 

something still to learn; 5° 

But how to tell what 's old or young, the 

tap-root from the sprigs. 
Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce 

de Leon Twiggs? 



The wisest was a Freshman once, just 

freed from bar and bolt, 
As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as 

a colt; 
Don't be too savage with the boys, — ^the 

Primer does not say 
The kitten ought to go to church because 

the cat doth prey. 



The law of merit and of age is not the 

rule of three; 
Non Constat that A.M. must prove as 

busy as A.B. 
When Wise the father tracked the son, 

ballooning through the skies, 
He taught 'a lesson to the old, — go thou 

and do like Wise ! 60 



Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, 

of high or low degree, 
Remember how we only get one annual 

out of three, 
And such as dare to simmer down three 

dinners into one. 
Must cut their salads mighty short, and 

pepper well with fun. 



I 've passed my zenith long ago, it 's time 

for me to set; 
A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am 

lingering yet. 
As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk- 

and-watery moon 
Stains with its dim and fading ray the 

lustrous blue of noon. 



Farewell ! yet let one echo rise to shake 

our ancient' hall ; 
God save the Queen, — whose throne is 

here, — the Mother of us all ! 7° 

Till dawns the great commencement-day 

on every shore and sea, 
And "Expectantur" all mankind, to take 

their last Degree ! 



440 



AMERICAN POETRY 



BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT 
FOR SISTER CAROLINE 

March 25, 1861. 

She has gone, — she has left us in passion 
and pride, — 

Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our 
side! 

She has torn her own star from our firma- 
ment's glow, 

And turned on her brother the face of a 
foe! 

Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun. 
We can never forget that our hearts have 

been one, — 
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's 

name, 
From the fountain of blood with ^the 

finger of flame 1 ^^ 

You were always too ready. to fire at a 

touch ; 
But we said, "She is hasty, — she does not 

mean much." i* 

We have scowled, when you uttered some 

turbulent threat; 
But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive 

and forget!" 

Has our love all died out? Have its 

altars grown cold? 
Has the curse come at last which the 

fathers foretold? 
Then Nature must teach us the strength 

of the chain 
That her petulant children would sever in 

vain. 

They may fight till the buzzards are 

gorged with their spoil, 
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in 

the soil. 
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop 

from their caves, 
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord 

of the waves : 20 

In vain is the strife ! When its fury is 
past. 

Their fortunes must flow in one channel 
at last. 

As the torrents that rush from the moun- 
tains of snow 

Roll mingled in peace through the valleys 
below. 



Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky : 
Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts 

the die ! 
Though darkened with sulphur, though 

cloven with steel, 
The blue arch will brighten, tlie wp.ters 

will heal I 

Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
There are battleg with Fate that can never 

be won ! jo 

The star-flowering banner must never be 

furled. 
For its blossoms of light are the hope of 

the world ! 

Ga, then, our rash sister ! afar and aloof, 
Run wild in the sunshine away from our 

roof; 
But when your heart aches and your feet 

have grown sore. 
Remember the pathway that leads to our 

door ! 



March, 1861. 



Atlantic Monthly, May, 1861. 



TO MY READERS 

Nay, blame me not; I might have spared 
Your patience many a trivial verse. 

Yet these my earlier welcome shared, 
So, let the better shield the worse. 

And some might say, "Those ruder songs 
Had freshness which the new have lost ; 

To spring the opening leaf belongs. 
The chestnut-burs await the frost." 

When those I wrote, my locks were 
brown. 

When these I write — ah, well-a-day ! 10 
The autumn thistle's silvery down 

Is not the purple bloom of May! 

Go, little book, whose pages hold 
Those garnered years in loving trust; 

How long before your blue and gold 
Shall fade and whiten in the dust? 

sexton of the alcoved tomb. 

Where souls in leathern cerements lie, 
Tell me each living poet's doom ! 
How long before his book shall die? 20 

It matters little, soon or late, 
A day, a month, a year, an age, — 

1 read oblivion in its date, 
And Finis on its title-page. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



441 



Before we signed, our griefs were told; 

Before we smiled, our joys were sung; 
And all our passions shaped of old 

In accents lost to mortal tongue. 

In vain a fresher mould we seek, — 
Can all the varied phrases tell 3° 

That Babel's wandering children speak 
How thrushes sing or lilacs smell? 

Caged in the poet's lonely heart, 
Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone ; 

The soul that sings must dwell apart, 
Its inward melodies unknown. 

Deal gently with us, ye who read! 

Our largest hope is unfulfilled, — 
The promise still outruns the deed, — 39 

The tower, but not the spire, we build. 

Our whitest pearl we never find; 

Our ripest fruit we never reach; 
The flowering moments of the mind 

Drop half their petals in our speech. 

These are my blossoms; if they wear 
One streak of morn or evening's glow, 

Accept them; but to me more fair 
The buds of song that never blow. 

April 8, 1862. 



TO CANAAN H 

A Song of the Six Hundred Thousand. 

Where are you going, soldiers. 

With banner, gun, and sword? 
We *re marching South to Canaan 

To battle for the Lord ! 
What Captain leads your armies 

Along the rebel coasts? 
The Mighty One of Israel, 
His name is Lord of Hosts! 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, "> 

To blow before the heathen walls 
The trumpets of the North ! 

What flag is this you carry 

Along the sea and shore? 
The same our grandsires lifted up, — 

The same our father's bore ! 

* This poem, published in the Boston Evening 
Transcript, was claimed by several persons, three, 
if I remember correctly, whose names I have 
had, but never thou^t it worth while to publish. 
{Author's Note.) 



In many a battle's tempest 

It shed the crimson rain, — 
What God has woven in His loom 
Let no man rend in twain ! ^o 

To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth. 
To plant upon the rebel towers 
The banners of the North! 

What troop is this that follows. 

All armed with picks and spades? 
These are the swarthy bondsmen, — 

The iron-skin brigades ! 
They '11 pile up Freedom's breastwork, 

They '11 scoop out rebels' graves; 3° 
Who then will be their owner 
And march them off for slaves? 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth. 
To strike upon the captive's chain 
The hammers of the North. 

What song is this you 're singing? 

The same that Israel sung 
When Moses led the mighty choir, 

And Miriam's timbrel rung ! 4° 

To Canaan I To Canaan ! 

The priest and maidens cried; 
To Canaan ! To Canaan ! 
The people's voice replied. 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth. 
To thunder through its adder dens 
The anthems of the North ! 

When Canaan's hosts are scattered, 

And all her walls lie flat, 5o 

What follows next in order? 

— The Lord will see to that ! 
We '11 break the tyrant's sceptre, — 

We '11 build the people's throne, — 
When half the world is Freedom's 
Then all the world's our own ! 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, 
To sweep the rebel threshing-floors, 
A whirlwind from the North ! 6° 

Boston Evening Transcript, Aug. 2, 1862. 



NON-RESISTANCE 

Perhaps too far in these considerate 

days 
Has patience carried her submissive ways ; 
Wisdom has taught us to be calm and 

meek. 
To take one blow, and turn the other 

cheek ; 



442 



AMERICAN POETRY 



1 



It is not written, what a man shall do, 
If the rude caitifif smite the other too! 



Land of our fathers, in thine hour of 

need 
God help thee, guarded by the passive 

creed ! 
As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and 

cowl, 
When through the forest rings the gray 

wolf's howl; 10 

As the deep galleon trusts her gilded 

prow 
When the black corsair slants athwart 

her bow; 
As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful 

mien, 
Trusts to his feathers, shining golden- 
green. 
When the dark plumage with the crimson 

beak 
Has rustled shadowy from its splintered 

peak, — 
So trust thy friends, whose babbling 

tongues would charm 
The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm, 
Thy torches ready for the answering peal 
From bellowing fort and thunder - 

freighted keel! ^o 



THE MORAL BULLY 

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights 

to wear 
A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, 
Seems of the sort that in a crowded place 
One elbows freely into smallest space; 
A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, 
Whom small disturbance whitens round 

the lip; 
One of those harmless spectacled ma- 
chines, 
The Holy-Week of Protestants convenes; 
Whom school-boys question if their walk 

transcends 
The last advices of maternal friends; "> 
Whom John, obedient to his master's 

sign. 
Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine. 
While Peter, glistening with luxurious 

scorn. 
Husks his white ivories like an ear of 

corn; 
Dark in the brow and bilious in the 

cheek. 
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once 

a week, 



Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare 

suits. 
And the laced high-lows which they call 

their boots. 
Well mayst thou shun that dingy front 

severe, 
But him, O stranger, him thou canst not 

fear ! zo 

Be slow to judge, and slower to despise, 
Man of broad shoulders and heroic size! 
The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings, 
Drops at the fountain where the cobra 

stings. 
In that lean phantom, whose extended 

_ glove 
Points to the text of universal love, 
Behold the master that can tame thee 

down 
To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday 

frown ; 
His velvet throat against thy corded 

wrist, 
His loosened tongue against thy doubled 

fist ! 30 

The Moral Bully, though he never 
swearsj 
Nor kicks intruders down his entry stairs, 
Though meekness plants his backward- 
sloping hat. 
And non-resistance ties his white cravat. 
Though his black broadcloth glories to be 

seen 
In the same plight with Shylock's gaber- 
dine, 
Hugs the same passion to his narrow 

breast 
That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's 

chest. 
Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in his 

rear 
That chase from port the maddened buc- 
caneer, 4° 
Feels the same comfort while his acrid 

words 
Turn the sweet milk of kindness into 

curds, 
Or with grim logic prove, beyond debate. 
That all we love is worthiest of our hate, 
As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's deck, 
When his long swivel rakes the stagger- 
ing wreck 1 

Heaven keep us all! Is every rascal 
clown 
Whose arm is stronger free to knock us 
down? 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



443 



Has every scarecrow, whose cachectic 

soul 
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on 

parole, so 

Who, though he carries but a doubtful 

trace 
Of angel visits on his hungry face. 
From lack of marrow or the coins to pay. 
Had dodged some vices in a shabby way. 
The right to stick us with his cutthroat 

terms. 
And bait his homilies with his brother 

worms? 

"Songs in Many Keys," 1862. 



THE STATESMAN'S SECRET i 

Who of all statesmen is his country's 
pride. 

Her councils' prompter and her leaders' 
guide? 

He speaks; the nation holds its breath to 
hear; 

He nods, and shakes the sunset hemi- 
sphere. 

Born where the primal fount of Nature 
springs 

By the rude cradles of her throneless 
kings. 

In his proud, eye her royal signet flames. 

By his own lips her Monarch she pro- 
claims. 
Why name his countless triumphs, 
whom to meet 

Is to be famous, envied in defeat? lo 

The keen debaters, trained to brawls and 
strife. 

Who fire one shot, and finish with the 
knife. 

Tried him but once, and, cowering in their 
shame. 

Ground their hacked blades to strike at 
meaner game. 

The lordly chief, his party's central stay. 

Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, 

Found a new listener seated at his side. 

Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied. 

Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled 
floor. 

Met the all-conquering, fought, — and ruled 
no more. 20 

See where he moves, what eager crowds 
attend ! 

What shouts of thronging multitudes as- 
cend! 

* The poem was originally called "The Disap- 
pointed Statesman." The statesman is, of course, 
Webster, 



If this is life, — to mark with every hour 

The purple deepening in his robes of 
power. 

To see the painted fruits of honof fall 

Thick at his feet, and choose among them 
all. 

To hear the sounds that shape his spread- 
ing name 

Peal through the myriad organ-stops of 
fame. 

Stamp the lone isle that spots the sea- 
man's chart, 29 

And crown the pillared glory of the mart, 

To count as peers the few supremely 
wise 

Who mark their planet in the angels' 
eyes, — 

If this is life — 

What savage man is he 

Who strides alone beside the sounding 
sea? 

Alone he wanders by the murmuring 
shore. 

His thoughts as restless as the waves that 
roar ; 

Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed 

As on the waves yon tempest-brooding 
cloud, 

Heaves from his aching breast a wailing 
sigh, 

Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded 
sky. 40 

Ask him his griefs; what midnight demons 
plough 

The lines of torture on his lofty brow; 

Unlock those marble lips, and bid them 
speak 

The mystery freezing in his bloodless 
cheek. 
His secret? Hid beneath a flimsy word; 

One foolish whisper that ambition heard; 

And thus it spake : "Behold yon gilded 
chair. 

The world's one vacant throne, — thy place 
is there !" 
Ah, fatal dream ! What warning spec- 
tres meet 49 

In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat! 

Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his 
ear 

The maddening taunt he cannot choose 
but hear : 

"Meanest of slaves, by gods and men ac- 
curst. 

He who is second when he might be first ! 

Climb with bold front the ladder's top- 
most round, 

Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the 
ground !" 



444 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic 

eyes 
Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar 

prize? 
Art thou the last of all mankind to 

know 
That party-fights are won by aiming 

low? 
Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal 

sign, 6i 

That party-hirelings hate a look like thine ? 
Shake from thy sense the wild delusive 

dream ! 
Without the purple, art thou not supreme? 
And soothed by love unbought, thy heart 

shall own 
A nation's homage nobler than its throne ! 

1850. "Songs in Many Keys," 1862. 



SHAKESPEARE 

Tercentennial Celebration 
April 23, 1864. 

"Who claims our Shakespeare from that 
realm unknown. 
Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the 
deep. 
Where Genoa's roving mariner was 
blown ? 
Her twofold Saint's-day let our Eng- 
land keep ; 
Shall warring aliens share her holy task?" 
The Old World echoes, Ask. 

O land of Shakespeare ! ours with all thy 
past. 
Till these last years that make the sea 
so wide. 
Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast 
Has dulled our aching sense to joyous 
pride '° 

In every noble word thy sons bequeathed 
The air our fathers breathed ! 

War-wasted, haggard, panting from the 
strife, 
We turn to other days and far - off 
lands, 
Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded 
life. 
Come with fresh lilies in our fevered 
hands 
To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple 
flowers, — 
Not his the need, but ours! 



We call those poets who are first to mark 

Through earth's dull mist the coming 

of the dawn, — 20 

Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale 

spark. 

While others only note that day is gone ; 

For him the Lord of light the curtain rent 

That veils the firmament. 

The greatest for its greatness is half 
known. 
Stretching beyond our narrow quadrant- 
lines, — 
As in that world of Nature all outgrown 
Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines. 
And cast from Mariposa's mountain-wall 
Nevada's cataracts fall. 30 

Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours, 
Throbbing its radiance like a beating 
heart ; 
In the wide compass of angelic powers 
The instinct of the blindworm has its 
part; 
So in God's kingliest creature we behold 
The flower our buds infold. 

With no vain praise we mock the stone- 
carved name 
Stamped once on dust that moved with 
pulse and breath. 
As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame 
Whose undimmed glories gild the night 
of death: 4° 

We praise not star or sun ; in these we see 
Thee, Father, only Thee ! 

Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and 
love : 
We read, we reverence on this human 
soul, — 
Earth's clearest mirror of the light 
above, — 
Plain as the record on thy prophet's 
scroll. 
When o'er his page the effluent splendors 
poured, 

Thine own "Thus saith the Lord !" 

This player was a prophet from on high, 
Thine own selected. Statesman, poet, 
sage, 50 

For him thy sovereign pleasure passed 
them by; 
Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's rip- 
ened age, 
Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial 
mind 
Who taught and shamed mankind. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



445 



Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum 
rise, 
Nor fear to make thy worship less 
divine, 
And hear the shouted choral shake the 
skies, 
Counting all glory, power, and wisdom 
thine ; 
For thy great gift thy greater name adore. 
And praise thee evermore ! 60 

In this dread hour of Nature's utmost 
need. 
Thanks for these unstained drops of 
freshening dew ! 
Oh, while our martyrs fall, our heroes 
bleed. 
Keep us to every sweet remembrance 
true, 
Till from this blood-red sunset springs 
new-born 

Our Nation's second morn ! 



BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTH- 
DAY 

November 3, 1864 

O even-handed Nature! we confess 
This life that men so honor, love, and 

bless 
Has filled thine olden measure. Not the 

less 

We count the precious seasons that re- 
main ; 
Strike not the level of the golden grain. 
But heap it high with years, that earth 
may gain 

What heaven can lose, — for heaven is rich 

in song: 
Do not all poets, dying, still prolong 
Their broken chants amid the seraph 

throng, 

Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is 
seen, ^^ 

And England's heavenly minstrel sits be- 
tween 

The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked Flor- 
entine ? 

This was the first sweet singer in the 

cage 
Of our close- woven life. A new-born 

age 
Claims in his vesper song its heritage : 



Spare us, oh spare us long our heart's 

desire ! 
Moloch, who calls our children through 

the fire. 
Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre. 

We count not on the dial of the sun 
The hours, the minutes, that his sands 

have run; 2° 

Rather, as on those flowers that one by 

one 

From earliest dawn their ordered bloom 

display 
Till evening's planet with her guiding ray 
Leads in the blind old mother of the day, 

We reckon by his songs, each song a 

flower. 
The long, long daylight, numbering hour 

by hour. 
Each breathing sweetness like a bridal 

bower. 

His morning glory shall we e'er forget? 
His noontide's full-blown lily coronet? 
His evening primrose has not opened 
yet ; 30 

Nay, even if creeping Time should hide 

the skies 
In midnight from his century-laden eyes. 
Darkened like his who sang of Paradise, 

Would not some hidden song-bud open 

bright 
As the resplendent cactus of the night 
That floods the gloom with fragrance and 

with light? 

How can we praise the verse whose mu- 
sic flows 
With solemn cadence and majestic close. 
Pure as the dew that filters through the 
rose? 

How shall we thank him that in evil 
days 40 

He faltered never, — nor for blame, nor 
praise, 

Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier 
lays? 

But as his boyhood was of manliest hue, 
So to his youth his manly years were 

true. 
All dyed in royal purple through and 

through ! 



446 



AMERICAN POETRY 



He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven 

is strung 
Needs not the flattering toil of mortal 

tongue : 
Let not the singer grieve to die unsung! 

Marbles forget their message to mankind : 
In his own verse the poet still we find, so 
In his own page his memory lives en- 
shrined, 

As in their amber sweets the smothered 
bees, — 

As the fair cedar, fallen before the 
breeze. 

Lies self-embalmed amidst the moulder- 
ing trees. 

Poets, like youngest children, never grow 
Out of their mother's fondness. Nature 

so 
Holds their soft hands, and will not let 

them go, 

Till at the last they track with even feet 
Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses 

beat 
Twinned with her pulses, and their lips 

repeat ^'^ 

The secrets she has told them, as their 

own : 
Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known. 
And the rapt minstrel shares her awful 

throne ! 

O lover of her mountains and her woods. 
Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes, 
Where Love himself with tremulous step 
intrudes. 

Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred 

fire: 
Far be the day that claims thy sounding 

lyre 
To join the music of the angel choir! 

Yet, since life's amplest measure must be 
filled, 70 

Since throbbing hearts must be forever 
stilled, 

And all must fade that evening sunsets 
gild. 

Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal 

eyes 
That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice. 
Its smoke may vanish from these black- 
ened skies ! 



Then, when his summons comes, since 
come it must. 

And, looking heavenward with unfalter- 
ing trust. 

He wraps his drapery round him for the j|| 
dust, J ' 

His last fond glance will show him o'er 

his head 
The Northern fires beyond the zenith 

spread 80 

In lambent glory, blue and - white and 

red, — 

The Southern cross without its bleeding 

load, 
The milky way of peace all freshly 

strowed. 
And every white-throned star fixed in its 

lost abode ! 



1864. 



Atlantic Monthly, Dec, 1864. 



A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ 

How the mountains talked together, 

Looking down upon the weather. 

When they heard our friend had planned 

his 
Little trip among the Andes ! 
How they'll bare their snowy scalps 
To the climber of the Alps 
When the cry goes through their passes, 
"Here comes the great Agassiz 1" 
"Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo, 
"But I wait for him to say so, — 1° 

That 's the only thing that lacks, — he 
Must see me, Cotopaxl !" 
"Ay ! ay !" the fire-peak thunders, 
"And he must view my wonders ! 
I'm but a lonely crater 
Till I have him for spectator !" 
The mountain hearts are yearning, 
The lava-torches burning. 
The rivers bend to meet him. 
The forests bow to greet him, 20 

It thrills the spinal column 
Of fossil fishes solemn. 
And glaciers crawl the faster 
To the feet of their old master! 
Heaven keep him well and hearty ! 
Both him and all his party! 
From the sun that broils and smites, 
From the centipede that bites. 
From the hail-storm and the thunder. 
From the vampire and the condor, 30 

From the gust upon the river. 
From the sudden earthquake shiver, 
From the trip of mule or donkey. 
From the midnight howling monkey. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



447 



From the stroke of knife or dagger, 

From the puma and the jaguar, 

From the horrid boa-constrictor 

That has scared us in the pictur', 

From the Indians of the Pampas 

Who would dine upon their grampas, 4o 

From every beast and vermin 

That to think of sets us squirmin'. 

From every snake that tries on 

The traveller his p'ison, 

From every pest of Natur', 

Likewise the alligator, 

And from two things left behind hfm, — 

(Be sure they'll try to find him,) 

The tax-bill and assessor, — 

Heaven keep the great Professor! so 

May he find, with his apostles. 

That the land is full of fossils, 

That the waters swarm with fishes 

Shaped according to his wishes, 

That every pool is fertile 

In fancy kinds of turtle^ 

New birds around him smging, 

New insects, never stinging, 

With a million novel data 

About the articulata, -60 

And facts that strip off all husks 

From the history of mollusks. 

And when, with loud Te Deum, 

He returns to his Museum, 

May he find the monstrous reptile 

That so long the land has kept ill 

By Grant and Sherman throttled, 

And by Father Abraham bottled, 

(All specked and streaked and mottled 

With the scars of murderous battles, 7o 

Where he clashed the iron rattles 

That gods and men he shook at,> 

For all the world to look at ! 

God bless the great Professor ! 

And Madam, too, God bless her! 

Bless him and all his band, 

On the sea and on the land, 

Bless them head and heart and hand, 

Till their glorious raid is o'er, 

And they touch our ransomed shore ! 80 

Then the welcome of a nation. 

With its shout of exultation. 

Shall awake the dumb creation, 

And the shapes of buried aeons 

Join the living creatures' paeans. 

Till the fossil echoes roar; 

While the mighty megalosaurus 

Leads the palaeozoic chorus, — 

God bless the great Professor, 

And the land his proud possessor, — 90 

Bless them now and evermore! 

1865. 



ALL HERE 

It is not what we say or sing, 

That keeps our charm so long un- 
broken, 
Though every lightest leaf we bring 

May touch the heart as friendship's 
token ; 
Not what we sing or what we say 

Can make us dearer to each other; 
We love the singer and his lay. 

But love as well the silent brother. 

Yet bring whate'er your garden grows. 
Thrice welcome to our smiles and 
praises ; 10 

Thanks for the myrtle and the rose, 

Thanks for the marigolds and daisies; 
One flower ere long we all shall claim, 
^Alas! unloved of Amaryllis — 
Nature's last blossom — need I name 
The wreath of three-score's silver Hlies? 

How many, brothers, meet to-night 

Around our boyhood's covered embers? 
Go read the treasured names aright 

The old triennial list remembers; 20 
Though twenty wear the starry sign 

That tells a life has broke its tether. 
The fifty-eight of 'twenty-nine — 

God bless THE BOYS !— are all to- 
gether ! 

These come with joyous look and word. 

With friendly grasp and cheerful greet- 
ing,— _ 
Those smile unseen, and move unheard, 

The angel guests of every meeting; 
They cast no shadow in the flame 

That flushes from the gilded lustre, 30 
But count us — we are still the same ; 

One earthly band, one heavenly cluster ! 

Love dies not when he bows his head 

To pass beyond the narrow portals, — 
The light these glowing moments shed 
Wakes from their sleep our lost immor- 
tals; 
They come as in their joyous prime. 
Before their morning days were num- 
bered, — 
Death stays the envious hand of Time, — 
The eyes have not grown dim that 
slumbered ! 4° 

The paths that loving souls have trod 
Arch o'er the dust where worldlings 
grovel 

High as the zenith o'er the sod, — 
The cross above the sexton's shovel! 



448 



AMERICAN POETRY 



We rise beyond the realms of day; 
They seem to stoop from spheres of 
glory 
With us one happy hour to stray, 

While youth comes back in song and 
story. 



Ah ! ours is friendship true as steel 49 

That war has tried in edge and tem- 
per; 
It writes upon its sacred seal 

The priest's ubique — omnes — semper! 
It lends the sky a fairer sun 

That cheers our lives with rays as 
steady 
As if our footsteps had begun 

To print the golden streets already ! 



The tangling years have clinched its knot' 

Too fast for mortal strength to sunder; 
The lightning bolts of noon are shot; 

No fear of evening's idle thunder ! 60 
Too late ! too late ! — no graceless hand 

Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor 
To rive the close encircling band 

That made and keeps us one forever ! 

So when upon the fated scroll 

The falling stars have all descended, 
And blotted from the breathing roll, 

Our little page of life is ended, 
We ask but one memorial line 69 

Traced on thy tablet, Gracious Mother: 
"My children. Boys of '29. 

In pace. How they loved each other !" 

1867. 



SIDNEY LANIER 

(1842-1881) 



THE DYING WORDS OF STONE- 
WALL JACKSON 

"Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle." 

"Tell Major Hawks to advance the Commissary 

train." 
"Let us cross the river and rest in the shade." 

The stars of Night contain the glittering 

Day_ 
And rain his glory down with sweeter 

grace 
Upon the dark World's grand, enchanted 

face — 
All loth to turn away. 

And so the Day, about to yield his breath. 
Utters the stars unto the listening Night, 
To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of 
light 

Said on the verge of death. 

O hero-life that lit us like the sun ! 
O hero-words that glittered like the stars 
And stood and shone above the gloomy 
wars " 

When the hero-life was done ! 

The phantoms of a battle came to dwell 
r the fitful vision of his dying eyes — 
Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends sup- 
plies 
To those he loved so well. 

His army stands in battle-line arrayed : 
His couriers fly : all's done : now God de- 
cide ! 
— And not till then saw he the Other Side 
Or would accept the shade. 20 

Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars 

remain ! 
Still shine the words that miniature his 

deeds. 
O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great heart 

bleeds. 

Solace hast thou for pain! 



1865. 



1884. 



NIGHT AND DAY 

The innocent, sweet Day is dead. 
Dark Night hath slain her in her bed. 
O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed! 
— Put out the light, said he. 

A sweeter light than ever rayed 
From star of heaven or eye of maid 
Has vanished in the unknown Shade. 
— She's dead, she's dead, said he. 

Now, in a wild, sad after-mood 
The tawny Night sits still to brood *o 

Upon the dawn-time when he wooed. 
— I would she lived, said he. 

Star-memories of happier times, 
Of loving deeds and lovers' rhymes. 
Throng forth in silvery pantomimes. 
— Come back, O Day ! said he. 

1866. The Independent, Aug., 1884. 



CORN 

To-day the woods are trembling through 

and through 
With shimmering forms, that flash before 

my view. 
Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in 

blue. 
The leaves that wave against my cheek 

caress 
Like women's hands; the embracing 

boughs express 
A subtlety of mighty tenderness ; 
The copse-depths into little noises start. 
That sound anon like beatings of a heart. 
Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart. 
The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer 

hums a song; 1° 

Through that vague wafture, expirations 

strong 
Throb from young hickories breathing 

deep and long 
With stress and urgence bold of prisoned 

spring 
And ecstasy of burgeoning. 



449 



450 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Now. since the dew-plashed road of morn 

is dry. 
Forth venture odors of more quahty 
And heavenher giving. Like Jove's locks 

awry. 
Long muscadines 
Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of 

great pines. 
And breathe ambrosial passion from their 

vines. -'>' 

I pray with mosses, ferns and flowers shy 
That hide like gentle nuns from human 

eye 
To lift adoring perfumes to the sky. 
I hear faint bridal - sighs of brown and 

green 
Dying to silent hints of kisses keen 
As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen. 
I start at fragmentary whispers, blown 
From undertalks of leafy souls unknown, 
\'ague purports sweet, of inarticulate tone. 
Dreaming of gods, men, nuns and brides, 

between 30 

Old companies of oaks that inward lean 
To join their radiant amplitudes of green 
I slowly move, with ranging looks that 

pass 
Lfp from the matted miracles of grass 
Into yon veined complex of space 
Where sky and leafage interlace 
So close, the heaven of blue is seen 
Interwoven with a heaven of green. 

I wander to the zigzag-cornered fence 
Where sassafras, intrenched in brambles 

dense, 4° 

Contests with stolid vehemence 
The march of culture, setting limb and 

thorn 
As pikes against the army of the corn. 

There, while I pause, my fieldward-faring 
eyes 

Take harvests, where the stately corn- 
ranks rise, 

Of inward dignities 

And large benignities and insights wise, 
Graces and modest majesties. 

Thus, without theft, I reap another's 
field; 

Thus, without tilth, I house a wondrous 
yield, _ 5° 

And heap my heart with quintuple crops 
concealed. 

Look, out of line one tall corn-captain 

stands 
Advanced beyond the foremost of his 

bands, 



And waves his blades upon the very edge 

And hottest thicket of the battling hedge. 

Thou lustrous stalk, that ne'er mayst walk 
nor talk. 

Still shalt thou type the poet-soul sublime 

That leads the vanward of his timid 
time 

And sings up cowards with commanding 
rhyme — 

Soul calm. like thee, yet fain, like thee, 
to grow 60 ; 

By double increment, above, below; l| 

Soul homely, as thou art, yet rich in 
grace like thee. 

Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry 

That moves in gentle curves of courtesy; 

Soul filled like thy long veins with sweet- 
ness tense. 

By every godlike sense 

Transmuted from the four wild elements. 
Drawn to high plans. 

Thou lift'st more stature than a mortal 
man's. 

Yet ever piercest downward in the mould 
And keepest hold "' 

L^pon the reverend and steadfast earth 
That gave thee birth ; 

Yea, standest smiling in thy future grave. 
Serene and brave. 

With unremitting breath 

Inhaling life from death. 

Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage elo- 
quent. 

Thyself thy monument. 

As poets should, 80 

Thou hast built up thy hardihood 
With universal food. 
Drawn in select proportion fair 
From honest mould and vagabond air; 
From darkness of the dreadful night, 

And joyful light; 
From antique ashes, whose departed flame 
In thee has finer life and longer fame; 
From wounds and balms, 
From storms and calms, 9o 

From potsherds and dr}' bon.s 

And ruin-stones. 
Into thy vigorous substance thou hast 

wrought 
Whate'er the hand of Circumstance hath 

brought ; 
Yea. into cool solacing green hast spun 
White radiance hot from out the sun. 
So thou dost mutually leaven 
Strength of earth with grace of heaven; 
So thou dost marry new and old 
Into a one of higher mould; ^°° 

So thou dost reconcile the hot and cold, 



SIDNEY LANIER 



451 



The dark and bright, 
And many a heart-perplexing opposite, 

And so, 
Akin ?jy blood to high and low, 
Fitly thou playest out thy poet's part, 
Richly expending thy much-bruised heart 
In equal care to nourish lord in hall 

Or beast in stall : 
Thou took'st from all that thou might'st 
give to all. "o 

O steadfast dweller on the selfsame spot 
Where thou wast born, that still repinest 

not — 
Type of the home-fond heart, the happy 

lot !— 
Deeply thy mild content rebukes the 

land 
Whose flimsy homes, built on the shifting 

sand 
Of trade, for ever rise and fall 
With alternation whimsical. 
Enduring scarce a day, 
Then swept away 
By swift engulfments of incalculable 

tides I20 

Whereon capricious Commerce rides. 
Look, thou substantial spirit of content ! 
Across this little vale, thy continent, 
To where, beyond the mouldering mill. 
Yon old deserted Georgian hill 
Bares to the sun his piteous aged crest 

And seamy breast, 
By restless-hearted children left to lie 
Untended there beneath the heedless sky. 
As barbarous folk expose their old to 

die. 130 

Upon that generous-rounding side, 

With gullies scarified 
Where keen Neglect his lash hath plied. 
Dwelt one I knew of old, who played at 

toil. 
And gave to coquette Cotton soul and 

soil. 
Scorning the slow reward of patient 

grain. 
He sowed his heart with hopes of swifter 

gain. 
Then sat him down and waited for the 

rain. 
He sailed in borrowed ships of usury — 
A foolish Jason on a treacherous sea, 140 
Seeking the Fleece and finding misery. 
Lulled by smooth-rippling loans, in idle 

trance 
He lay, content that un thrift Circum- 
stance 
Should plough for him the stony field of 

Chance, 



Yea, gathering crops whose worth no man 

might tell, 
He staked his life on games of Buy-and- 

Sell, 
And turned each field into a gambler's 

hell. 
Aye, as each year began, 
My farmer to the neighboring city ran ; 
Passed with a mournful anxious face '5o 
Into the banker's inner place; 
Parleyed, excused, pleaded for longer 

grace ; 
Railed at the drought, the worm, the rust, 

the grass ; 
Protested ne'er again 'twould come to 

pass; 
With many an oh and if and but alas! 
Parried or swallowed searching questions 

rude, 
And kissed the dust to soften Dives's 

mood. 
At last, small loans by pledges great re- 
newed. 
He issues smiling from the fatal door. 
And buys with lavish hand his yearly 

store 160 

Till his small borrowings will yield no 

more. 
Aye, as each year declined. 
With bitter heart and ever-brooding mind 
He mourned his fate unkind. 
In dust, in rain, with might and main, 
He nursed his cotton, cursed his grain, 
Fretted for news that made him fret 

again. 
Snatched at each telegram of Future Sale, 
And thrilled with Bulls' or Bears' alter- 
nate wail — 
In hope or fear alike for ever pale. 170 
And thus from year to year, through hope 

and fear, 
With many a curse and many a secret 

tear. 
Striving in vain his cloud of debt to clear. 

At last 
He woke to find his foolish dreaming past, 
And all his best-of-life the easy prey 
Of squandering scamps and quacks that 

lined his way 
With vile array. 
From rascal statesman down to petty 

knave ; 
Himself, at best, for all his bragging 

brave, i^o 

A gamester's catspaw and a banker's slave. 
Then, worn and gray, and sick with deep 

unrest. 
He fled into the oblivious West, 
Unmourned, unblest. 



452 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Old hill ! old hill ! thou gashed and hairy 

Lear 
Whom the divine Cordelia of the year, 
E'en pitying Spring, will vainly strive to 

cheer — 
King, that no subject" man nor beast may 

ovi^n. 
Discrowned, undaughtered and alone — 
Yet shall the great God turn thy fate, 190 
And bring thee back into thy monarch 

state 
And majesty immaculate. 
Lo, through hot waverings of the August 

morn. 
Thou givest from thy vasty sides fore- 
lorn 
Visions of golden treasuries of corn — 
Ripe largesse lingering for some bolder 

heart 
That manfully shall take thy part, 
And lend thee. 
And defend thee, 
With antique sinew and with modern 

art. 200 

1874-5. Lippincott's Magazine, Feb., 1875. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 



O Age that half believ'st thou half be- 

liev'st, 
Half doubt'st the substance of thine own 

half doubt, 
And, half perceiving that thou half per- 

ceiv'st, 
Stand'st at thy temple door, heart in, 

head out ! 
Lo ! while thy heart's within, helping the 

choir, 
Without, thine eyes range up and down 

the time, 
Blinking at o'er-bright science, smit with 

desire 
To see and not to see. Hence, crime 

on crime. 
Yea, if the Christ (called thine) now 

paced yon street. 
Thy halfness hot with His rebuke would 

swell ; 10 

Legions of scribes would rise and run and 

beat 
His fair intolerable Wholeness twice to 

hell. 
Nay (so, dear Heart, thou whisperest in 

my soul), 
'Tis a half time, yet Time ivill make it 

"Whole, 



|i 



Now at thy soft recalling voice T rise 
Where thought' is lord o'er Time's com- 
plete estate. 
Like as a dove from out the gray sedge 
flies 
To tree-tops green where cooes his 
heavenly mate. 
From these clear coverts high and cool 
I see 19 

How every time with every time is knit. 
And each to all is mortised cunningly. 

And none is sole or whole, yet all are fit. 
Thus, if this Age but as a comma show 
'Twit weightier clauses of large-worded 

years, 
My calmer soul scorns not the mark : I 
know 
This crooked point Time's complex 
sentence clears. 
Yet more I learn, while. Friend ! I sit by 

thee: 
Who sees all time, sees all eternity. 



H I do ask. How God can dumbness keep 
While Sin creeps grinning through His / 
house of Time, 30 

Stabbing His saintliest children in their 
sleep, 
And staining holy walls with clots of 
crime? — 
Or, How may He whose wish but names 
a fact 
Refuse what miser's-scanting of supply 
Would richly glut each void where man 
hath lacked 
Of grace or bread? — or. How may 
Power deny 
Wholeness to th' almost- folk that hurt 
our hope — 
These heart-break Hamlets who so 
barely fail 
In life or art that but a hair's more scope 
Had set them fair on heights they ne'er 
may scale ? — 
Somehow by thee, dear Love, I win con- 
tent : 40 
Thy Perfect stops th' Imperfect's argu- 
ment. 



By the more height of thy sweet stature 
grown. 
Twice-eyed with thy gray vision set in 
mine, 
I ken far lands to wifeless men unknown, 
I compass stars for one-sexed eyes too 
fine. 



SIDNEY LANIER 



453 



No text on sea-horizons cloudily writ, 
No- maxim vaguely starred in fields or 

skies, 
But this wise thou-in-me deciphers it : 
Oh, thou'rt the Height of heights, the 

Eye of eyes. 
Not hardest Fortune's most unbounded 

stress 50 

Can blind my soul nor hurl it from on 

high. 
Possessing thee, the self of loftiness, 

And very light that Light discovers by. 
Howe'er thou turn'st, wrong Earth; still 

Love's in sight: 
For we are taller than the breadth of 

night. 

1874-75. Lippincott's Magazine, Nov., 1876. 



THE SYMPHONY 

"O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert 

dead! 
The Time needs heart — 'tis tired of head : 
We're all for love," the violins said. 
Of what avail the rigorous tale 
Of bill for coin and box for bale? 
Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost 

hope : 
Level red gold with blue sky-slope, 
And base it deep as devils grope : 
When all's done, what hast thou won 
Of the only sweet that's under the sun? 1° 
Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh 
Of true love's least, least ecstasy?" 
Then, with a bridegroom's heart - beats 

trembling, 
All the mightier strings assembling 
Ranged them on the violins' side 
As when the bridegroom leads the bride. 
And, heart in voice, together cried : 
"Yea, what avail the endless tale 
Of gain by cunning and plus by sale? 
Look up the land, look down the land, 20 
The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand 
Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand 
Against an inward-opening door 
That pressure tightens evermore : 
They sigh a monstrous foul-air sigh 
For the outside leagues of liberty, 
Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky 
Into a heavenly melody. 
'Each day, all day' (these poor folks say), 
Tn the same old year - long, drear - long 

way, _ _ . ^° 

We weave in the mills and heave in the 

kilns, 
We sieve mine-meshes under the hills, 



And thieve much gold from the Devil's 

bank tills. 
To relieve, O God, what manner of ills? — 
The beasts, they hunger, and eat, and 

die; 
And so do we, and the world's a sty; 
Hush, fellow-swine: why nuzzle and cry? 
Swinehood hath no remedy 
Say many men, and hasten by. 
Clamping the nose and blinking the eye. 4° 
But who said once, in the lordly tone, 
Man shall not live by bread alone 
But all that cometh from the Throne?' 
Hath God said so? 
But Trade saith No: 
And the kilns and the curt-tongued mills 

say Go! 
There's plenty that can, if you can't: we 

know. 
Move out, if you think you're underpaid. 
The poor are prolific; we're not afraid; 
Trade is trade.'' " 5° 

Thereat this passionate protesting 
Meekly changed, and softened till 
It sank to sad requesting 
And suggesting sadder still : 
"And oh, if men might sometime see 
How piteous-false the poor decree 
That trade no more than trade must be ! 
Does business mean, Die, you — live. If 
Then 'Trade is trade' but sings a lie : 
'Tis only war grown miserly. 6° 

If business is battle, name.it so: 
War-crimes less will shame it so. 
And widows less will blame it so. 
Alas, for the poor to have some part 
In yon sweet living lands of Art, 
Makes problern not for head, but heart. 
Vainly might Plato's brain revolve it : 
Plainly the heart of a child could solve 

it." 

And then, as when from words that seem 

but rude 
We pass to silent pain that sits abrood 7° 
Back in our heart's great dark and soli- 
tude, 
So sank the strings to gentle throbbing 
Of long chords change-marked with sob- 
bing- 
Motherly sobbing, not distinctlier heard 
Than half wing-openings of the sleeping 

bird, 
Some dream of danger to her young hath 

stirred. 
Then stirring and demurring ceased, and 

lo! 
Every least ripple of the strings' song- 
flow 



454 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Died to a level with each level bow 
And made a great chord tranquil-surfaced 
so, 80 

As a brook beneath his curving bank doth 

go 
To linger in the sacred dark and green 
Where many boughs the still pool over- 
lean 
And many leaves make shadow with their 
sheen. 
But presently 
A velvet flute-note fell down pleasantly 1 
Upon the bosom of that harmony, 
And sailed and sailed incessantly. 
As if a petal from a wild-rose blown 
Had fluttered down upon that pool of 
tone _ 90 

And boatwise dropped o' the convex side 
And floated down the glassy tide 
And clarified and glorified 
The solemn spaces where the shadows 

bide. 
From the warm concave of that fluted 

note 
Somewhat, half song, half odor, forth did 

float, 
As if a rose might somehow be a 

throat : 
"When Nature from her far-off glen 
Flutes her soft messages to men, 

The flute can say them o'er again ; 1°° 
Yea, Nature, singing sweet and lone. 
Breathes through life's strident polyphone 
The flute-voice in the world of tone. 
Sweet friends. 
Man's love ascends 
To finer and diviner ends 
Than man's mere thought e'er compre- 
hends 
For I, e'en I, 
As here I lie, 

A petal on a harmony, "o 

Demand of Science whence and why 
Man's tender pain, man's inward cry, 
When he doth gaze on earth and sky? 
I am not overbold : 

I hold 
Full powers from Nature manifold. 
I speak for each no-tongued tree 
That, spring by spring, doth nobler be, 
And dumbly and most wistfully 
His mighty prayerful arms outspreads '20 
Above men's oft-unheeding heads, 
And his big blessing downward sheds. 
I speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves. 
Lichens on stones and moss on eaves. 
Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves ; 

^ Lanier had been since 1873 first flutist in 
the Peabody Symphony Orchestra, 



Broad - f ronded ferns and keen - leaved 

canes, ij 

And briery mazes bounding lanes, I 

And marsh - plants, thirsty - cupped for '' 

rains. 
And milky stems and sugary veins ; 
For every long-armed woman-vine '3° 

That round a piteous tree doth twine; 
For passionate odors, and divine 
Pistils, and petals crystalline ; 
All purities of shady springs. 
All shynesses of film-winged things 
That fly from tree-trunks and bark- 
rings ; 
All modesties of mountain-fawns 
That leap to covert from wild lawns. 
And tremble if the day but dawns; 
All sparklings of small beady eyes 140 

Of birds, and sidelong glances wise 
Wherewith the jay hints tragedies; 
All piquancies of prickly burs. 
And smoothnesses of downs and furs, 
Of eiders and of minevers; 
All limpid honeys that do lie 
At stamen-bases, nor deny 
The humming-birds' fine roguery, 
Bee-thighs, nor any butterfly; 
All gracious curves of slender wings, '5° 
Bark-mottlings, fibre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings and leaf-flickerings ; 
Each dial-marked leaf and flower-bell 
Wherewith in every lonesome dell 
Time to himself his hours doth tell; 
All tree-sounds, rustlings of pine-cones, 
Wind-sighings, doves' melodious moans. 
And night's unearthly under-tones ; 
All placid lakes and waveless deeps. 
All cool reposing mountain-steeps, '^o 

Vale-calms and tranquil lotos-sleeps ;— 
Yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and 

lights. 
And warmths, and mysteries, and mights. 
Of Nature's utmost depths and heights, 
— These doth my timid tongue present. 
Their mouthpiece and leal instrument 
And servant, all love-eloquent. 
I heard, when "All for love" the violins 

cried : 
So, Nature calls through all her system 

wide. 
Give VIC thy love, O man, so long de- 
nied. ' ^7° 
Much time is run, and man hath changed 

his ways. 
Since Nature, in the antique fable-days, 
Was hid from man's true love by proxy 

fays, 
False fauns and rascal gods that stole her. 
praise, 



SIDNEY LANIER 



455 



The nymphs, cold creatures of man's 
colder brain ; 

Chilled Nature's streams till man's warm 
heart was fain 

Never to lave its love in them again. 

Later, a sweet Voice Love thy neighbor 
said ; 

Then first the bounds of neighborhood 
outspread '79 

Beyond all confines of old ethnic dread. 

Vainly the Jew might wag his covenant 
head : 

"All men are neighbors," so the sweet 
Voice said. 

So, when man's arms had circled all man's 
race, 

The liberal compass of his warm embrace 

Stretched bigger yet in the dark bounds 
of space; 

With hands a-grope he felt smooth Na- 
ture's grace. 

Drew her to breast and kissed her sweet- 
heart face : 

Yea, man found neighbors in great hills 
and trees 

And streams and clouds and suns and 
birds and bees. 

And throbbed with neighbor-loves in lov- 
ing these. 190 

But oh, the poor ! the poor ! the poor ! 

That stand by the inward-opening door 

Trade's hand doth tighten ever more, 

And sigh their monstrous foul-air sigh 

P'or the outside hills of liberty, 

Where Nature spreads her wild blue sky 

For Art to make into melody ! 

Thou Trade ! thou king of the modern 
days ! 
Change thy ways. 
Change thy ways ; 200 

Let the sweaty laborers file 
A little while, 
A little while, 

Where Art and Nature sing and smile. 

Trade! is thy heart all dead, all dead? 

And hast thou nothing but a head? 

"I'm all for heart," the flute-voice said, 

And into sudden silence fled, 

Like as a blush that while 'tis red 

Dies to a still, still white instead. 210 

Thereto a thrilling calm succeeds, 
Till presently the silence breeds 
A little breeze among the reeds 
That seems to blow by sea-marsh weeds : 
Then from the gentle stir and fret 
Sings out the melting clarionet, 
Like as a lady sings while yet 
Her eyes with salty tears are wet. 



"O Trade ! O Trade !" the Lady said, 
"I too will wish thee utterly dead 220 

If all thy heart is in thy head. 
For O my God ! and O my God ! 
What shameful ways have women trod 
At beckoning of Trade's golden rod! 
Alas when sighs are traders' lies. 
And heart's-ease eyes and violet eyes 

Are merchandise ! 
O purchased lips that kiss with pain ! 
O cheeks coin-spotted with smirch and 
stain ! 229 

trafficked hearts that break in twain ! 
— And yet what wonder at my sisters' 

crime? 
So hath Trade withered up Love's sinewy 

prime, 
Men love not women as in olden time. 
Ah, not in these cold merchantable days 
Deem men their life an opal gray, where 

plays 
The one red Sweet of gracious ladies'- 

praise. 
Now, comes a suitor with sharp prying 

eye — 
Says, Here, you Lady, if you'll sell, I'll 

buy: 
Come, heart for heart — a trade? What! 

weeping? why? 239 

Shame on such wooers' dapper mercery ! 

1 would my lover kneeling at my feet 
In humble manliness should cry, O sweet! 
I know not if thy heart my heart will 

greet: 
I ask not if thy love my love can meet: 
Whate'er thy worshipful soft tongue shall 

say, 
I'll kiss thine answer, be it yea or nay: 
I do but know I love thee, and I pray 
To be thy knight until my dying day. 
Woe him that cunning trades in hearts 

contrives ! 
Base love good women to base loving 

drives. 250 

If men loved larger, larger were our lives; 
And wooed they nobler, won they nobler 

wives." 

There thrust the bold straightforward horn 
To battle for that lady lorn, 
With heartsome .voice of mellow scorn, 
Like any knight in knighthood's morn. 

"Now comfort thee," said he, 
"Fair Lady. 
For God shall right thy grievous wrong, 
And man shall sing thee a true-love song, 
Voiced in act his whole life long, 261 

Yea, all thy sweet life long, 
Fair Lady. 



456 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Where's he that craftily hath said, 
The day of chivalry is dead? 
I'll prove that lie upon his head, 
Or I will die instead, 
Fair Lady. 
Is Honor gone into his grave? 
Hath Faith become a caitiff knave, 270 
And Selfhood turned into a slave 
To vi^ork in Mammon's cave, 
Fair Lady? 
Will Truth's long blade ne'er gleam 

again ? 
Hath Giant Trade in dungeons slain 
All great contempts of mean-got gain 
And hates of inward stain, 
Fair Lady? 
For aye shall name and fame be sold, 
And place be hugged for the sake of 

gold, 280 

And smirch-robed Justice feebly scold 
At Crime all money-bold, 
Fair Lady? 
Shall self-wrapt husbands aye forget 
Kiss-pardons for the daily fret 
Wherewith sweet wifely eyes are wet — 
Blind to lips kiss-wise set — 
Fair Lady? 
Shall lovers higgle, heart for heart, 
Till wooing grows a trading mart 290 

Where much for little, and all for part. 
Make love a cheapening art. 
Fair Lady? 
Shall woman scorch for a single sin 
That her betrayer may revel in. 
And she be burnt, and he but grin 
When that the flames begin, 
Fair Lady? 
Shall ne'er prevail the woman's plea, 
PVe maids would far, far whiter be 3°° 
// that our eyes might sometimes see 
Men maids in purity, 
Fair Lady? 
Shall Trade aye salve his conscience-aches 
With gibes at Chivalry's old mistakes — 
The wars that o'erhot knighthood makes 
For Christ's and ladies' sakes. 
Fair Lady? 
Now by each knight that e'er hath prayed 
To fight like a man and love like a 

maid, 310 

Since Pembroke's life, as Pembroke's 
blade, 
r the scabbard, death, was laid. 
Fair Lady, 
I dare avouch my faith is bright 
That God doth right and God hath might. 
Nor time hath changed His hair to white, 
Nor His dear love to spite, 
Fair Lady. 



I doubt no doubts : I strive, and shrive my 

clay. 
And fight my fight in the patient modern 

way 320 

For true love and for thee — ah me ! and 

pray 
To be thy knight until my dying day, 
Fair Lady." 
Made end that knightly horn, and spurred 

away 
Into the thick of the melodious fray. 

And then the hautboy played and smiled, 
And sang like any large-eyed child. 
Cool-hearted and all undefiled. 

"Huge Trade !" he said, 
"Would thou wouldst hft me on thy 

head 33o 

And run where'er my finger led ! 
Once said a Man — and wise was He — 
Never shalt thou the heavens see. 
Save as a little child thou he." 
Then o'er sea-lashings of commingling 

tunes 
The ancient wise bassoons. 

Like weird 

Gray-beard 
Old harpers sitting on the high sea-dunes. 

Chanted runes : 34° 

"Bright-waved gain, gray-waved loss. 
The sea of all doth lash and toss. 
One wave forward and one across : 
But now 'twas trough, now 'tis crest, 
And worst doth foam and flash to best. 

And curst to blest. 

"Life! Life! thou sea- fugue, writ from 
east to west. 
Love, Love alone can pore 
On thy dissolving score 
Of harsh half-phrasings, sso 

Blotted ere writ. 
And double erasings 
Of chords most fit. 
Yea, Love, sole music-master blest, 
May read thy weltering palimpsest. 
To follow Time's dying melodies through. 
And never to lose the old in the new. 
And ever to solve the discords true — 

Love alone can do. 
And ever Love hears the poor-folks' cry- 
ing, 360 
And ever Love hears the women's sigh- 
ing. 
And ever sweet knighthood's death-defy- 
ing. 
And ever wise childhood's • deep imply- 
ing, 
But never a trader's glozing and lying. 



SIDNEY LANIER 



457 



"And yet shall Love himself be heard, 

Though long deferred, though 'long de- 
ferred : 

O'er the modern waste a dove hath 
whirred : 

Music is Love in search of a word." 

1875. Lippincotfs Magazine, June, 1875. 



CLOVER 

Inscribed to the Memory of John Keats. 

Dear uplands, Chester's favorable fields. 

My large un jealous Loves, many yet one — 

A grave good-morrow to your Graces, all, 

Fair tilth and fruitful seasons ! 

Lo, how still ! 

The midmorn empties you of men, save 
me; 

Speak to your lover, meadows ! None 
can hear. 

I lie as lies yon placid Brandywine, 

Holding the hills and heavens in my heart 

For contemplation. 

'Tis a perfect hour 

From founts of dawn the fluent autumn 
day 10 

Has rippled as a brook right pleasantly 

Half-way to noon; but now with widen- 
ing turn 

Makes pause, in lucent meditation locked, 

And rounds into a silver pool of morn, 

Bottom'd with clover-fields. My heart 
just hears 

Eight lingering strokes of some far vil- 
lage-bell. 

That speak the hour so inward-voiced, 
meseems 

Time's conscience has but whispered him 
eight hints 

Of revolution. Reigns that mild surcease 

That stills the middle of each rural 
morn — 20 

When nimble noises that with sunrise ran 

About the farms have sunk again to rest; 

When Tom no more across the horse-lot 
calls 

To sleepy Dick, nor Dick husk-voiced up- 
braids 

The sway-back'd roan for stamping on 
his foot 

With sulphurous oath and kick in flank, 
what time 

The cart-chain clinks across the slanting 
shaft. 

And, kitchenward, the rattling bucket 
plumps 



Souse down the well, where quivering 

ducks quack aloud. 
And Susan Cook is singing. 29 

Up the sky 
The hesitating moon slow trembles on. 
Faint as a new-washed soul but lately up 
From out a buried body. Far about, 
A hundred slopes in hundred fantasies 
Most ravishingly run, so smooth of curve 
That I but seem to see the fluent plain 
Rise toward a rain of clover-blooms, as 

lakes 
Pout gentle mounds of plashment up to 

meet 
Big shower-drops. Now the little winds, 

as bees, 
Bowing the blooms come wandering where 

I lie 40 

Mixt soul and body with the clover-tufts. 
Light on my spirit, give from wing and 

thigh 
Rich pollens and divine sweet irritants 
To every nerve, and freshly make report 
Of inmost Nature's secret autumn-thought 
Unto some soul of sense within my frame 
That owns each cognizance of the outly- 
ing five. 
And sees, hears, tastes, smells, touches, 

all in one. 5° 

Tell me, dear Clover (since my soul is 

thine. 
Since I am fain give study all the day. 
To make thy ways my ways, thy service 

mine. 
To seek me out thy God, my God to be, 
And die from out myself to live in thee) — 
Now, Cousin Clover, tell me in mine 

ear : 
Go'st thou to market with thy pink and 

green ? 
Of what avail, this color and this grace? 
Wert thou but squat of stem and brindle- 

brown, 
Still careless herds would feed. A poet, 

thou : 60 

What worth, what worth, the whole of all 

thine art? 
Three-Leaves, instruct me! I am sick of 

price. 
Framed in the arching of two clover- 
stems 
Where-through I gaze from ofif my hill, 

afar. 
The spacious fields from me to Heaven 

take on 
Tremors of change and new significance. 
To th' eye, as to the ear a simple tale 
Begins to hint a parable's sense beneath. 



458 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The prospect widens, cuts all bounds of 
blue 69 

Where horizontal limits bend, and spreads 

Into a curious-hill'd and curious-valley'd 
Vast, 

Endless before, behind, around; which 
seems 

Th' incalculable Up-and-Down of Time 

Made plain before mine eyes. The clover- 
stems 

Still cover all the space; but now they 
bear, 

For clover-blooms, fair, stately heads of 
men 

With poets' faces lieartsome, dear and 
pale — 

Sweet visages of all the souls of time 

Whose loving service to the world has 
been 

In the artist's way expressed and bodied. 
Oh, ^ 80 

In arms' reach, here be Dante, Keats, 
Chopin, 

Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo, 

Beethoven, Chaucer, Schubert, Shake- 
speare, Bach, 

And Buddha (sweetest masters! Let me 
lay 

These arms this once, this humble once, 
about 

Your reverend necks — the most contain- 
ing clasp, 

For all in all, this world e'er saw!) and 
there, 

Yet further on, bright throngs unnamable 

Of workers worshipful, nobilities 

In the Court of Gentle Service, silent 
men, 9° 

Dwellers in woods, brooders on helpful art, 

And all the press of them, the fair, the 
large. 

That wrought with beauty. 

Lo, what bulk is here? 

Now comes the Course-of-things, shaped 
like an Ox, 

Slow browsing, o'er my hillside, ponder- 
ously — 

The huge-brawned, tame, and workful 
Course-of-things, 

That hath his grass, if earth be round or 
flat, 

And hath his grass, if empires plunge in 
pain 

Of faiths flash out. This cool, unasking Ox 

Comes browsing o'er my hills and vales 
of Time, 100 

And thrusts me out his tongue, and curls 
it, sharp. 

And sicklewise, about my poets' heads, 



And twists them in, all — Dante, Keats, 
Chopitij^ 

Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo, 

Beethoven, Chaucer, Schubert, Shake- 
speare, Bach, 

And Buddha, in one sheaf — and champs 
and chews, 

With slantly-churning jaws, and swallows 
down : 

Then slowly plants a mighty forefoot out. 

And makes advance to futureward, one 
inch. 

So : they have played their part. 109 

And to this end? 

This, God? This, troublous-breeding 
Earth? This, Sun 

Of hot, quick pains? To this no-end that 
ends. 

These Masters wrought, and wept, and 
sweated blood. 

And burned, and loved, and ached with 
public shame. 

And found no friends to breathe their 
loves to, save 

Woods and wet pillows? This was all? 
This Ox? 

"Nay," quoth a sum of voices in mine ear, 

"God's clover, we, and feed His Course- 
of-things; 

The pasture is God's pasture, systems 
strange "9 

Of food and fiberment He hath, whereby 

The general brawn is built for plans of 
His 

To quality precise. Kinsman, learn this : 

The artist's market is the heart of man; 

The artist's price, some little good of man. 

Tease not thy vision with vain search for 
ends. 

The End of Means is art that works by 
love. 

The End of Ends ... in God's Begin- 
ning's lost." 

1876. The Independent, 1876. 

SONNETS ON COLUMBUS 
From the Psalm of the West. 



Columbus stands in the night alone, and, 
passing grave. 
Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under- 
silence yearn. 
Heartens his heart as friend befriends his 
friend less brave. 
Makes burn the faiths that cool, and 
cools the doubts that burn : — 



I 



SIDNEY LANIER 



459 



"'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my 

soul will smite 
With prickly seconds, or less tolerably 
With dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping 

me. 
Wait, Heart ! Time moves. — Thou lithe 

young Western Night, 
Just-crowned king, slow riding to thy 

right, ' 9 

Would God that I might straddle mutiny 
Calm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed 

sea, 
Balk'st with his balking, flijst with his 

. ,fl'ght, 
Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls, 
Nor dropp'st one coronal star about thy 

brow 
Whilst ever dayward thou art steadfast 

drawn ! 
Yea, would I rode these mad contentious 

brawls 
No damage taking from their If and How, 
Nor no result save galloping to my 

Dawn ! 



"My Dawn? my Dawn? How if it never 
break? 

How _ if this West by other Wests is 
pieced, 20 

And these by vacant Wests on Wests in- 
creased — 

One Pain of Space, with hollow ache on 
ache 

Throbbing and ceasing not for Christ's 
own sake? — 

Big perilous theorem, hard for king and 
priest : 
Pursue the West but long enough, 'tis 
East! 

Oh, if this watery world no turning take! 

Oh, if for all my logic, all my dreams, 

Provings of that which is by that which 
seems, 

Fears, hopes, chills, heats, hastes, pa- 
tiences, droughts, tears, 

Wife-grievings, slights on love, embezzled 
years, 30 

Hates, treaties, scorns, upliftings, loss and 
gain,— 

This earth, no sphere, be all one sicken- 
ing plane ! 

Ill 
"Or, haply, how if this contrarious West, 
That me by turns hath starved, by turns 

hath fed, 
Embraced, disgraced, beat back, solicited. 



Have no fixed heart of Law within his 

breast, 
Or with some different rhythm doth e'er 

contest 
Nature in the East? Why, 'tis but three 

weeks' fled 
I saw my Judas needle shake his head 
And flout the Pole that, east, he Lord 

confessed! 4° 

God ! if this West should own some other 

Pole, 
And with his tangled way perplex my soul 
Until the maze grow mortal, and I die 
Where distraught Nature clean hath gone 

astray, 
On earth some other wit than Time's at 

play. 
Some other God than mine above the sky! 



"Now speaks mine other heart with cheer- 
ier seeming: 

Ho, Admiral! o'er-defalking to thy crew 

Against thyself, thyself far overfew 

To front yon multitudes of rebel schem- 
ing ? 50 

Come, ye wild twenty years of heavenly 
dreaming ! 

Come, ye wild weeks since first this can- 
vas drew 

Out of vexed Palos ere the dawn was 
blue, 

O'er milky waves about the bows full- 
creaming I 

Come set me round with many faithful 
spears 

Of confident remembrance — how I crushed 

Cat-lived rebellions, pitfalled treasons, 
hushed 

Scared husbands' heart-break cries on 
distant wives. 

Made cowards blush at whining for their 
lives. 

Watered my parching souls, and dried 
their tears. 60 



"Ere we Gomera cleared, a coward cried. 

Turn, turn: here be three caravels ahead. 
From Portugal, to take us: we are dead! 
Hold Westward, pilot, calmly I replied. 
So when the last land down the horizon 

died. 
Go back, go back! they prayed: our hearts 

are lead. — 
Friends, we are bound into the West, I 

said. 
Then passed the wreck of a mast upon 

our side. 



460 



AMERICAN POETRY 



See (so they wept) God's Warning! Ad- 
miral, turn! — 

Steersman, I said, hold straight into the 
West. 70 

Then down the night we saw the meteor 
burn. 

So do the very heavens in fire protest: 

Good Admiral, put about! O Spain, dear 
Spain ! — 

Hold straight into the West, I said again. 

VI 

"Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded 

sea. 
Lo! herebeneath (another coward cries) 
The cursed land of sunk Atlantis lies: 
This slime will suck us down — turn while 

thou'rt free! — 
But no! I said, Freedotn bears West for 

me! 
Yet when the long-time stagnant winds 

arise, 80 

And day by day the keel to westward 

flies, 
My Good my people's 111 doth come to 

be: 
Ever the winds into the West do blow; 
Never a ship, once turned, might home- 
ward go; 
Meanwhile we speed into the lonesome 

main. 
For Christ's sake, parley. Admiral! Turn, 

before 
We sail outside all bounds of help from 

pain! — 
Our help is in the West, I said once more. 



"So when there came a mighty cry of 

Land! 
And we clomb up and saw, and shouted 

strong 90 

Salve Regina! all the ropes along. 
But knew at morn how that a counterfeit 

band 
Of level clouds had aped a silver strand; 
So when we heard the orchard-bird's 

small song, 
And all the people cried, A hellish throng 
To tempt us onward by the Devil planned, 
Yea, all from hell — keen heron, fresh 

green weeds, 
Pelican, tunny-fish, fair tapering reeds. 
Lie-telling lands that ever shine and die. 
In clouds of nothing round the empty sky. 
Tired Admiral, get thee from this hell, 

and rest! — loi 

Steersman, I said, hold straight into the 

West. 



"I marvel how mine eye, ranging the 

Night, _ 
From its big circling ever absently 
Returns, thou large low Star, to fix on 

thee. 
Maria! Star? No star: a Light, a Light! 
Would'st leap ashore, Heart? Yonder 

burns — a Light. 
Pedro Gutierrez, wake ! come up to me. 
I prithee stand and gaze about the sea : 
What seest? Admiral, like as Land — a 

Light! "o 

Well ! Sanchez of Segovia, come and 

try: 
What seest? Admiral, naught but sea and 

skv! 
Well! But / saw It. Wait! the Pinta's 

gun! 
Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear : 

'tis done ! 
Two dawns do break at once from Time's 

full hand — 
God, East — mine. West : good friends, 

behold my Land !" 

1876. Lippincott's Magazine, June, 1876. 



HEARTSTRONG SOUTH AND 
HEADSTRONG NORTH 

From the Psalm of the West. 



"Lists all white and blue in the skies ; 

And the people hurried amain 
To the Tournament under the ladies' eyes 

Where jousted Heart and Brain. 



"Blow, herald, blow! There entered Heart, 
A youth in crimson and gold. 

Blow, herald, blow! Brain stood apart, 
Steel-armored, glittering, cold. 



"Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round. 
Heart tra-li-raed merrily; ic 

But Brain sat still, with never a sound — 
Full cynical-calm was he. 



"Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three 
From his lady's white hand caught ; 

Brain's casque was bare as Fact — not he 
Or favor gave or sought. 



SIDNEY LANIER 



461 



"Blow, herald, blow! Heart shot a glance 

To catch his lady's eye; 
But Brain looked straight a-front, his 
lance 

To aim more faithfully. 20 



"They charged, they struck ; both fell, both 
bled; 

Brain rose again, ungloved; 
Heart fainting smiled, and softly said, 

My love to my Beloved." 



Heart and Brain! no more be twain; 
Throb and think, one flesh again ! 
Lo ! they weep, they turn, they run ; 
Lo ! they kiss : Love, thou art one ! 

1876. Lippincotfs Magazine, June, 1876. 



SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE 

Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hail, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain. 
Run the rapid and leap the fall. 
Split at the rock and together again, 
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 10 

All down the hills of Habersham, 
All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried Abide, abide, 
The wilful waterweeds held me thrall. 
The laving laurel turned my tide. 
The ferns and the fondhng grass said 

Stay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, 
Here in the hills of Habersham, 
Here in the valleys of Hall. 20 

High o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and 

Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 
These glades in the valleys of Hall 3° 



And oft in the hills of Habersham, 
And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth 

brook-stone 
Did bar me of passage with friendly 

brawl. 
And many a luminous jewel lone 
— Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
Ruby, garnet and amethyst — 
Made lures with the lights of streaming 
stone 
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 
In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 40 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. 
Downward the voices of Duty call — 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the 

main. 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to 

turn. 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn. 
And the lordly main from beyond the 
plain 
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 
Calls through the valleys of Hall. 5° 



1877. 



Scott's Magazine, 1877. 



THE STIRRUP-CUP 

Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare : 
Look how compounded, with what care ! 
Time got his wrinkles reaping thee 
Sweet herbs from all antiquity. 

David to thy distillage went, 
Keats, and Gotama excellent, 
Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, 
And Shakspere for a king-delight. 

Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: 
Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; i" 
'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me; 
I'll drink it down right smilingly. 

1877. Scribner's Monthly, May, 1877. 



THE MOCKING BIRD 

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray 
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew. 
He summ'd the woods in song; or typic 

drew 
The watch of hungry hawks, the lone 

dismay 



462 



AMERICAN POETRY 



1 



Of languid doves when long their lovers 

stray, 
And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle 

dew 
At morn in brake or bosky avenue. 
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird 

could say. 
Then down he shot, bounced airily along 
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, 

made song ^° 

Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art 

again. 
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me 

plain : 
How may the death of that dull insect be 
The life of yon trim Shakspere on the 

tree ? 

The Galaxy, Aug., 1877. 



THE BEE 

What time I paced, at pleasant morn, 

A deep and dewy wood, 
I heard a mellow hunting-horn 

Make dim report of Dian's lustihood 
Far down a heavenly hollow. 
Mine ear, though fain, had pain to follow : 
Tar a! it twanged, tara-tara! it blew 
Yet wavered oft, and flew 
Most ficklewise about, or here, or there, 
A music now from earth and now from 
air. 10 

But on a sudden, lo ! 
I marked a blossom shiver to and fro 
With dainty inward storm; and there 

within 
A down-drawn trump of yellow jessa- 
mine 

A bee 
Thrust up its sad-gold body lustily, 
All in a honey madness hotly bound 
On blissful burglary. 

A cunning sound '9 

In that wing-music held me : down I lay 
In amber shades of many a golden spray. 
Where looping low with languid arms the 

Vine 
In wreaths of ravishment did overtwine 
Her kneeling Live-Oak, thousand-fold to 

plight 
Herself unto her own true stalwart knight. 

As some dim blur of distant music nears 
The long-desiring sense, and'slowly clears 

To forms of time and apprehensive 
tune. 

So, as I lay, full soon 



Interpretation throve : the bee's fanfare 
Through sequent films of discourse vague 
as air, 3o 

Passed to plain words, while, fanning 

faint perfume, 
The bee o'erhung a rich, unrifled bloom : 
"O Earth, fair lordly Blossom, soft 

a-shine 
Upon the star-pranked universal vine. 
Hast nought for me? 
To thee 
Come I, a poet, hereward haply blown. 
From out another worldflower lately 
flown. 
Wilt ask. What profit e'er a poet brings? 
He beareth starry stuff about his wings 4° 
To pollen thee and sting the fertile : nay. 
If still thou narrow thy contracted way, 
— Worldflower, if thou refuse me — 
— Worldflower, if thou abuse me. 
And hoist thy stamen's spear-point high 
To wound my wing and mar mine eye — 
Nathless I'll drive me to thy deepest 

sweet. 
Yea, richher shall that pain the pollen beat 
From me to thee, for oft these pollens be 
Fine dust from wars that poets wage for 
thee. 50 

But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shine 
Upon the universal Jessamine, 
Prithee, abuse me not. 
Prithee, refuse me not, 
Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to 
me 
Hid in thy nectary !" 
And as I sank into a dimmer dream 
The pleading bee's song-burthen sole did 
seem : 
"Hast ne'er a honey-drop of love for 
me 

In thy huge nectary?" 6o 

1877. Lippincott's Magazine, Oct., 1877. 

UNDER THE CEDARCROFT 
CHESTNUT 1 

Trim set in ancient sward, his manful 
bole 
Upbore his frontage largely toward the 
sky. 
We could not dream but that he had a 
soul: 
What virtue breathed from out his 
bravery ! 

^ "This chestnut tree (at Cedarcroft, the estate 
of Mr. Bayard Taylor, in Pennsylvania), is es- 
timated to be more than eight hundred years 
old," {Author's Note.) 



SIDNEY LANIER 



463 



We gazed o'erhead : far down our deep- 
ening eyes 
Rained glamours from his green mid- 
summer mass. 
The worth and sun of all his centuries 
Suffused his mighty shadow on the. 
grass. 

A Presence large, a grave and steadfast 
Form 9 

Amid the leaves' light play and fantasy, 
A calmness conquered out of many a 
storm, 
A Manhood mastered by a chestnut- 
tret! 

Then, while his monarch fingers down- 
ward held 
The rugged burrs wherewith his state 
was rife, 
A voice of large authoritative Eld 

Seemed uttering quickly parables of 
Hfe: 

How Life in truth was sharply set with 
ills; 
A kernel cased in quarrels; yea, a 
sphere 
Of stings, and hedge-hog-round of mortal 
quills : 
How most men itched to eat too soon 
i' the year, ^° 

And took but wounds and worries for 
their pains. 
Whereas the wise withheld their patient 
hands. 
Nor plucked green pleasures till the sun 
and rains 
And seasonable ripenings burst all 
bands 

And opened wide the liberal burrs of life. 
There, O my Friend, beneath the chest- 
nut bough, 
Gazing on thee immerged in modern 
strife, 
I framed a prayer of fervency — that 
thou, 

In soul and stature larger than thy kind, 

Still more to this strong Form might'st 

liken thee, 3° 

Till thy whole Self in every fibre find 

The tranquil lordship of thy chestnut 

tree. 

1877. Scribner's Monthly, Jan., 1878. 



A SONG OF THE FUTURE 

Sail fast, sail fast, 
Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams; 
Sweep lordly o'er the drowned Past, 
Fly glittering through the sun's strange 
beams ; 

Sail fast, sail fast. 
Breaths of new buds from off some dry- 
ing lea 
With news about the Future scent the sea : 
My brain is beating like the heart of 

Haste : 
I'll loose me a bird upon this Present 
waste ; 

Go, trembling song, lo 

And stay not long ; oh, stay not long : 
Thou'rt only a gray and sober dove, 
But thine eye is faith and thy wing is 
love. 

1878. Scribner's Monthly, 1878. 



THE REVENGE OF HAMISH 

It was three slim does and a ten-tined 
buck in the bracken lay; 
And all of a sudden the sinister smell 

of a man, 
Awaft on a wind-shift, wavered and ran 
Down the hillside and sifted along through 
the bracken and passed that way. 

Then Nan got a-tremble at nostril; she 
was the daintiest doe; 
In the print of her velvet flank on the 

velvet fern 
She reared, and rounded her ears in 
turn. 
Then the buck leapt up, and .his head as 
a king's to a crown did go 

Full high in the breeze, and he stood as 
if Death had the form of a deer; 
And the two slim does long lazily 
stretching arose, ^° 

For their day-dream slowlier came to 
a close. 
Till they woke and were still, breath- 
bound with waiting and wonder and 
fear. 

Then Alan the huntsman sprang over the 
hillock, the hounds shot by, 
The does and the ten-tined buck made 

a marvellous bound, 
The hounds swept after with never a 
sound. 
But Alan loud winded his horn in sign 
that the quarry was nigh. 



464 



AMERICAN POETRY 



For at dawn of that day proud Maclean 
of Lochbuy to the hunt had waxed 
wild, 
And he cursed at old Alan till Alan 

fared off with the hounds 
For to drive him the deer to the lower 
glen-grounds : 

"I will kill a red deer," quoth Maclean, 
"in the sight of the wife and the 
child." 20 

So gayly he paced with the wife and the 
child to his chosen stand; 
But he hurried tall Hamish the hench- 
man ahead : "Go turn," — 
Cried Maclean, — "if the deer seek to 
cross to the burn. 
Do thou turn them to me : nor fail, lest 
thy back be red as thy hand." 

Now hard- fortuned Hamish, half blown 

of his breath with the height of the 

hill, 
Was white in the face when the ten- 

tined buck and the does 
Drew leaping to burn-ward; huskily 

rose 
His shouts, and his nether lip twitched 

and his legs were o'er-weak for his 

will. 

So the deer darted lightly by Hamish and 

bounded away to the burn. 

But Maclean never bating his watch 

tarried waiting below ; 30 

Still Hamish hung heavy with fear for 

to go 

All the space of an hour; then he went, 

and his face was greenish and stern, 

And his eye sat back in the socket, and 
shrunken the eye-balls shone, 
As withdrawn from a vision of deeds 

it were shame to see. 
"Now, now, grim henchman, what is 't 
with thee?" 
Brake Maclean, and his wrath rose red as 
a beacon the wind hath upblown. 



I had killed if the gluttonous kern had 
not wrought me a snail's own 
wrong!" 
Then he sounded, and down came kins- 
men and clansmen all : 

. "Ten blows, for ten tine, on his back 
let fall. 

And reckon no stroke if the blood follow 
not at the bite of thong!" 

So Hamish made bare, and took him his 
strokes ; at the last he smiled. 
"Now I'll to the burn," quoth Maclean, 

"for it still may be, 
If a slimmer-paunched henchman will 
hurry with me, 
I shall kill me the ten-tined buck for a 
gift to the wife and the child!" 

Then the clansmen departed, by this path 
and that; and over the hill 
Sped Maclean with an outward wrath 
for an inward shame; 5° 

And that place of the lashing full quiet 
became ; 
And the wife and the child stood sad; 
and bloody-backed Hamish sat still. 

But look! red Hamish has risen; quick 
about and about turns he. 
"There is none betwixt me and the 

crag-top !" he screams under breath. 
Then, livid as Lazarus lately from 
death. 
He snatches the child from the mother, 
and clambers the crag toward the 
sea. 

Now the mother drops breath; she is 
dumb, and her heart goes dead for 
a space. 
Till the motherhood, mistress of death, 

shrieks, shrieks through the glen, 
And that place of the lashing is live 
with men. 
And Maclean, and the gillie that told him, 
dash up in a desperate race. 60 



"Three does and a ten-tined buck made 
out," spoke Hamish, full mild, 
"And I ran for to turn, but my breath 

it was blown, and they passed ; 
I was weak, for ye called ere I broke 
me my fast." 
Cried Maclean : "Now a ten-tined buck in 
the sight of the wife and the child 40 



Not a breath's time for asking; an eye- 
glance reveals all the tale untold. 
They follow mad Hamish afar up the 

crag toward the sea. 
And the lady cries : "Clansmen, run 
for a fee ! 
Yon castle and lands to the two first 
hands that shall hook him and hold 



' SIDNEY LANIER 



465 



"Fast Hamish back from the brink !" — and 
ever she flies up the steep, 
And the clansmen pant, and they sweat, 

and they jostle and strain. 
But, mother, 'tis vain; but, father, 'tis 
vain ; 
Stern Hamish stands bold on the brink, 
and dangles the child o'er the deep. 

Now a faintness falls on the men that 
run, and they all stand still. 
And the wife prays Hamish as if he 
were God, on her knees, 7o 

Crying : "Hamish ! O Hamish ! but 
please, but please 
For to spare him !" and Hamish still 
dangles the child, with a wavering 
will. 

On a sudden he turns ; with a sea-hawk 
scream, and a gibe, and a song. 
Cries : "So ; I will spare ye the child 

if, in sight of ye all. 
Ten blows on Maclean's bare back shall 
fall. 
And ye reckon no stroke if the blood fol- 
low not at the bite of the thong!" 

Then Maclean he set hardly his tooth to 
his lip that his tooth was red. 
Breathed short for a space, said : "Nay, 

but it never shall be ! 
Let me hurl off the damnable hound in 
the sea !" 
But the wife : "Can Hamish go fish us 
the child from the .sea, if dead? 80 

"Say yea! — Let them lash me, Hamish?" — 

"Nay !" — "Husband, the lashing will 

heal; 
But, oh, who will heal me the bonny 

sweet bairn in his grave? 
Could ye cure me my heart with the 

death of a knave? 
Quick ! Love ! I will bare thee — so — 

kneel !" Then Maclean 'gan slowly 

to kneel. 

With never a word, till presently down- 
ward he jerked to the earth. 
Then the henchman — he that smote 
Hamish — would tremble and lag; 

' "Strike, hard!" quoth Hamish, full 
stern, from the crag; 

Then he struck him, and "One" sang 
Hamish, and danced with the child 
in his mirth. 



And no man spake beside Hamish; he 
counted each stroke with a song. 
When the last stroke fell, then he 
moved him a pace down the height, 90 
And he held forth the child in the 
heart-aching sight 
Of the mother, and looked all pitiful 
grave, as repenting a wrong. 

And there as the motherly arms stretched 
out with the thanksgiving prayer — 
And there as the mother crept up with 

a fearful swift pace, 
Till her finger nigh felt of the bairnie's 
face — 
In a flash fierce Hamish turned round 
and lifted the child in the air, 

And sprang with the child in his arms 
from the horrible height in the sea. 
Shrill screeching, "Revenge !" in the 

wind-rush; and pallid Maclean, 
Age- feeble with anger and impotent 
pain, 
Crawled up on the crag, and lay flat, and 
locked hold of dead roots of a tree. 

And gazed hungrily o'er, and the blood 

from his back drip-dripped in the 

brine, loi 

And a sea-hawk flung down a skeleton 

fish as he flew. 
And the mother stared white on the 
waste of blue. 
And the wind drove a cloud to -seaward, 
and the sun began to .shine. 

1878. Appleton's Magazine, 1878. 



THE MARSHES OF GLYNN 1 

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided 

and woven 
With intricate shades of the vines that 
myriad-cloven 
Clamber the forks of the multiform 
boughs, — 

Emerald twilights, — 
Virginal shy Hghts, 
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the 
whisper of vows, 

1 The salt marshes of Glynn County, Georgia, 
immediately around the sea-coast city of Bruns- 
wick. 

The three "Hymns of the Marshes" . . . 
are the only written portions of a series of six 
"Marsh Hymns" that were designed by the au- 
thor to form a separate volume. (Mrs. Lanier.) 



466 



AMERICAN POETRY 



When lovers pace timidly down through 

the green colonnades 
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear 
dark woods, 
Of the heavenly woods and glades, 
That run to the radiant marginal sand- 
beach within 10 
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn; — 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon- 
day fire, — 

Wildwood privacies, closets of lone de- 
sire, 

Chamber from chamber parted with wav- 
ering arras of leaves, — 

Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer 
to the soul that grieves, 

Pure with a sense of the passing of saints 
through the wood. 

Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with 
good ; — 

O braided dusks of the oak and woven 

shades of the vine, 
While the riotous noon-day sun of the 

June-day long did shine 
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held 

you fast in mine; 20 

But now when the noon is no more, and 

riot is rest, 
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous 

gate of the West, 
And the slant yellow beam down the 

wood-aisle doth seem 
Like a lane into heaven that leads from 

a dream, — 
Ay, now, when my soul all day hath 

drunken the soul of the oak. 
And my heart is at ease from men, and 

the wearisome sound of the stroke 
Of the scythe of time and the trowel 

of trade is low, 
And behef overmasters doubt, and I 

know that I know, 
And my spirit is grown to a lordly 

great compass within. 
That the length and the breadth and the 

sweep of the Marshes of Glynn 3° 
Will work me no fear like the fear they 

have wrought me of yore 
When length was fatigue, and when 

breadth was but bitterness sore. 
And when terror and shrinking and 

dreary unnamable pain 
Drew over me out of the merciless miles 

of the plain, — 
Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 
The vast sweet visage of space. 



To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I 

am drawn, 
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, 

as a belt of the dawn. 
For a mete and a mark 

To the forest-dark : — 4" 

So: 
AfiFable live-oak, leaning low, — 
Thus — with your favor — soft, with a rev- 
erent hand 
(Not Hghtly touching your person, Lord 

of the land!). 
Bending your beauty aside, with a step 

I stand 
On the firm-packed sand. 

Free 
By a world of marsh that borders a 

world of sea. 
Sinuous southward and sinuous north- 
ward the shimmering band 
Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of 

the marsh to the folds of the land. 5° 
Inward and outward to northward and 

southward the beach-lines linger and 

curl 
As a silver-wrought garment that clings 

to and follows the firm sweet limbs 

of a girl. 
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving 

again into sight. 
Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a 

dim gray looping of light. 
And what if behind me to westward the 

wall of the woods stands high? 
The world lies east : how ample, the 

marsh and the sea and the sky ! 
A league and a league of marsh-grass, 

waist-high, broad in the blade. 
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked 

with a light or a shade. 
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
To the terminal blue of the main. 60 

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the 

terminal sea? 
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
From the weighing of fate and the sad 

discussion of sin. 
By the length and the breadth and the 

sweep of the marshes of Glynn. 

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and 

nothing-withholding and free 
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer 

yourselves to the sea ! 
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and 

the rains and the sun. 
Ye spread and span like the catholic man 

who hath mightily won 



I 



SIDNEY LANIER 



467 



God out of knowledge and good out of 

infinite pain 
And sight out of blindness and purity out 

of a stain. 70 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the 

watery sod, 
Behold I will build me a nest on the 

greatness of God: 
I will fly in the greatness of God as the 

marsh-hen flies 
In the freedom that fills all the space 

'twixt the marsh and the skies : 
By so many roots as the marsh-grass 

sends in the sod 
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the great- 
ness of God : 
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the 

greatness within 
The range of the marshes, the liberal 

marshes of Glynn. 
And the sea lends large, as the marsh : 

lo, out of his plenty the sea 
Pours fast : full soon the time of the 

flood-tide must be : 80 

Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
About and about through the intricate 

channels that flow 
Here and there. 
Everywhere, 
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost 

creeks and the low-lying lanes. 
And the marsh is meshed with a million 

veins. 
That like as with rosy and silvery essences 

flow 
In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
Farewell, my lord Sun ! 
The creeks overflow : a thousand rivulets 

run 90 

'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades 

of the marsh-grass stir; 
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that 

westward whirr; 
Passeth, and all is still; and the currents 

cease to run; 
And the sea and the marsh are one. 

How still the plains of the waters be ! 
The tide is in his ecstasy. 
The tide is at his highest height: 
And it is night. 

And now from the Vast of the Lord will 

the waters of sleep 
Roll in on the souls of men, 100 

But who will reveal to our waking ken 
The forms that swim and the shapes that 

creep 

Under the waters of sleep? 



And I would I could know what swim- 
meth below when the tide comes in 

On the length and the breadth of the 
marvellous marshes of Glynn. 

1878. "The Masque of Poets," 1879. 



MARSH SONG— AT SUNSET 

Over the monstrous shambling sea, 

Over the Caliban sea. 
Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest: 
Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red West, — 

Thy Prosperp I'll be. 

Over the humped and fishy sea, 

Over the Caliban sea 
O cloud in the West, like a thought in 

the heart 
Of pardon, loose thy wing, and start. 

And do a grace for me. 10 

Over the huge and huddling sea. 

Over the Caliban sea. 
Bring hither my brother Antonio,— Man,— 
My injurer: night breaks the ban: 

Brother, I pardon thee. 

1879-80. The Continent, Feb., 1882. 



REMONSTRANCE 

"Opinion, let me alone : I am not thine. 
Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbear 
To feature me my Lord by rule and 
line. 
Thou canst not measure Mistress Nature's 
hair, 
Not one sweet inch : nay, if thy sight 
is sharp, 
Would'st count the strings upon an angel's 
harp? 

Forbear, forbear. 

"Oh let me love my Lord more fathom 
deep 
Than there is line to sound with : let me 
love 
My fellow not as men that mandates 
keep : 10 

Yea, all that's lovable, below, above. 
That let me love by heart, by heart, be- 
cause 
(Free from the penal pressure of the 
laws) 

I find it fair. 



468 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"The tears I weep by day and bitter 
night, 
Opinion ! for thy sole salt vintage fall. 
— As morn by morn I rise with fresh 
delight, 
Time through my casement cheerily doth 
call 
'Nature is new,' 'tis birthday every day, 
Come feast with me, let no man say 
me nay, 20 

Whate'er befall." 

"So fare I forth to feast : I sit beside 
Some brother bright : but, ere good-mor- 
row's passed. 
Burly Opinion wedging in hath cried 
Thou shalt not sit by us, to break thy 
fast, 
Save to our Rubric thou subscribe and 

swear — 
Religion hath blue eyes and yellow hair : 
She's Saxon, all." 

"Then, hard a-hungered for my brother's 
grace 
Till well-nigh fain to swear his folly's 
true, 30 

In sad dissent I turn my longing face 
To him that sits on the left : 'Brother, — 
with you?' 
— 'Nay, not with me, save thou sub- 
scribe and swear 
Religion hath black eyes and raven 
hair: 

Nought else is true.' 

"Debarred of banquets that my heart 
could make 
With every man on every day of life, 
I homeward turn, my fires of pain to 
slake 
In deep endearments of a worshipped 
wife. 
'I love thee well, dear Love,' quoth she, 
'and yet 40 

Would that thy creed with mine com- 
pletely met. 

As one, not two.' 

"Assassin ! Thief ! Opinion, 'tis thy 
work. 
By Church, by throne, by hearth, by every 
good 
That's in the Town of Time, I see 
thee lurk, 
And e'er some shadow stays where thou 
hast stood. 



Thou hand'st sweet Socrates his hem- 
lock sour ; 

Thou sav'st Barabbas in that hideous 
hour, 

And stabb'st the good 

"Deliverer Christ ; thou rack'st the souls 
of men ; so 

Thou tossest girls to lions and boys to 
flames ; 
Thou hew'st Crusader down by Sara- 
cen; 
Thou buildest closets full of secret 
shames ; 
Indifferent cruel, thou dost blow the 

blaze 
Round Ridley or Servetus; all thy days 
Smell scorched; I would 

" — Thou base-born Accident of time 
and place — 
Bigot Pretender unto Judgment's throne — 
Bastard, that claimest with a cunning 
face 
Those rights the true, true Son of Man 
doth own 60 

By Love's authority — thou Rebel cold 
At head of civil wars and quarrels 
old— 

Thou Knife on a throne — 

"I would thou left'st me free, to live 
with love. 
And faith, that through the love of love 
doth find 
My Lord's dear presence in the stars 
above. 
The clods below, the flesh without, the 
mind 
Within, the bread, the tear, the smile. 
Opinion, damned Intriguer, gray with 
guile. 

Let me alone." 7° 

1878. The Century Magazine, Apr., 1883. 



HOW LOVE LOOKED FOR HELL 

Tq heal his heart of long-time pain 
One day Prince Love for to travel was 
fain 

With Ministers Mind and Sense. 
"Now what to thee most strange may be?" 
Quoth Mind and Sense. "All things above, 
One curious thing I first would see — 

Hell," quoth Love. 



SIDNEY LANIER 



469 



Then Mind rode in and Sense rode out : 
They searched the ways of man about. 

First frightfully groaneth Sense. lo 

" 'Tis here, 'tis here," and spurreth in fear 

To the top of the hill that hangeth above 

And plucketh the Prince: "Come, come, 

'tis here — " 

"Where?" quoth Love — 

"Not far, not far," said shivering Sense 
As they rode on. "A short way hence, 

— But seventy paces hence : 
Look, King, dost see where suddenly 
This road doth dip from the height 

above ? 
Cold blew a mouldy wind by me." ^o 

("Cold?" quoth Love.) 

"As I rode down, and the River was black, 
And yon-side, lo ! an endless wrack 

And rabble of souls," sighed Sense, 
"Their eyes upturned and begged and 

burned 
In brimstone lakes, and a Hand above 
Beat back the hands that upward 
yearned — " 
"Nay!" quoth Love — 

"Yea, yea, sweet Prince; thyself shalt see. 
Wilt thou but down this slope with me; 3° 

'Tis palpable," whispered Sense. 
At the foot of the hill a living rill 
Shone, and the lilies shone white above; 
"But now 'twas black, 'twas a river, this 
rill," 

("Black?" quoth Love.) 

"Ay, black, but lo ! the lilies grow, 

And yon-side where was woe, was woe, — 

Where the rabble of souls," cried 

Sense, 

"Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn, 

Thrust back in the brimstone from above — 

Is banked of violet, rose, and fern :" 4i 

"How?" quoth Love: 

"For lakes of pain, yon pleasant plain 
Of woods and grass and yellow grain 

Doth ravish the soul and sense : 
And never a sigh beneath the sky, 
And folk that smile and gaze above" — 
"But saw'st thou here, with thine own eye. 

Hell?" quoth Love. 

"I saw true hell with mine own eye, so 
True hell, or light hath told a lie. 

True, verily," quoth stout Sense. 
Then Love rode round and searched the 

ground. 
The caves below, the hills above; 
"But I cannot find where thou hast found 

Hell," quoth Love. 



There, while they stood in a green wood 
And marvelled still on 111 and Good, 

Came suddenly Minister Mind. 
"In the heart of sin doth hell begin : 60 
'Tis not below, 'tis not above, 
It lieth within, it lieth within :" 

("Where?" quoth Love.) 

"I saw a man sit by a corse; 

Hell's in the murderer's breast: remors'e! 

Thus clamored his mind to his mind : 
Not fleshly dole is the sinner's goal, 
Hell's not below, nor yet above, 
'Tis fixed in the ever-damned soul" — 

"Fixed?" quoth Love — 7° 

"Fixed : follow me, would'st thou but see : 
He weepeth under yon willow tree. 

Fast chained to his corse," quoth Mind. 
Full soon they passed, for they rode fast, 
Where the piteous willow bent above. 
"Now shall I see at last, at last, 

Hell," quoth Love. 

There when they came Mind suffered 

shame : 
"These be the same and not the same," 

A-wondering whispered Mind. 80 
Lo, face by face two spirits pace 
Where the blissful willow waves above: 
One saith : "Do me a friendly grace" — 

("Grace!" quoth Love.) 

"Read me two Dreams that linger long, 
Dim as returns of old-time song 

That flicker about the mind. 
I dreamed (how deep in mortal sleep!) 
I struck thee dead, then stood above, 
With tears that none but dreamers weep ;" 

"Dreams," quoth Love. 91 

"In dreams, again, I plucked a flower 
That clung with pain and stung with 
power. 

Yea, nettled me, body and mind." 
"'Twas the nettle of sin, 'twas medicine; 
No need nor seed of it here Above; 
In dreams of hate true loves begin." 

"True," quoth Love. 

"Now strange," quoth Sense, and 

"Strange," quoth Mind, 
"We saw it, and yet 'tis hard to find, 100 
— But we saw it," quoth Sense and 

Mind. 
Stretched on the ground, beautifully 

crowned 
Of the piteous willow that wreathed above, 
"But I cannot find where ye have found 
Hell," quoth Love. 

1878. The Century Magazine, Mar., 1884. 



470 



AMERICAN POETRY 



SUNRISE 1 

In my sleep I was fain of their fellow- 
ship, fain 
Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the 
main. 
The little green leaves 'would not let me 

alone in my sleep ; 
Up-breathed from the marshes, a message 

of range and of sweep, 
Interwoven with waftures of wild sea- 
liberties, drifting. 
Came through the lapped leaves sifting, 
sifting. 
Came to the gates of sleep. 
Then my thoughts, in the dark of the 

dungeon-keep 
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City 

of Sleep, 
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assem- 
bling ; "^ 
The gates of sleep fell a-trembling 
Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter 
yes. 
Shaken with happiness : 
The gates of sleep stood wide. 

I have waked, I have come, my beloved ! 

I might not abide : 
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, 

my live-oaks, to hide 
In your gospelling glooms, — to be 
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh 

and the sea my sea. 

Tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied 
Tree 

That mine arms in the dark are embrac- 
ing", dost know ^ 

From what fount are these tears at thy 
feet which flow? 

They rise not from reason, but deeper in- 
consequent deeps. 

Reason's not one that weeps. 
What logic of greeting lies 

Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the 
rain of the eyes? 

^ "Sunrise," Mr. Lanier's latest completed 
pcein, was written while his sun of life seemed 
fairly at the setting, and the hand which first 
pencilled its lines had not strength to carry 
nourishment to the lips. . . . 

"Sunrise," the culminating poem, the highest 
vision of Sidney Lanier, was dedicated through 
his latest request to that friend who indeed came 
into his life only near its close, yet was at first 
meeting recognized by the poet as "the father 
of his spirit," George Westfeldt. When words 
were very few and the poem was unread, even 
by any friend, the earnest bidding came: "Send 
him my 'Sunrise,' that he may know how en- 
tirely we are one in thought." {Poems, 1884.) 



O cunning green leaves, little masters ! 

like as ye gloss 
All the dull-tissued dark with your lumi- 
nous darks that emboss 
The vague blackness of night into pattern 
and plan. 
So 
(But would I could know, but would I 
could know), 30 

With your question embroid'ring the dark 

of the question of man, — 
So, with your silences purfling this silence 

of man 
While his cry to the dead for some knowl- 
edge is under the ban. 
Under the ban. — 
So, ye have wrought me 
Designs on the night of our knowledge, — 
vea, ve have taught me. 
So, 
That haply Vv^e know somewhat more 
than we know. 



Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in 

storms. 
Ye consciences murmuring faith un- 
der forms, 40 
Ye ministers meet for each passion 

that grieves. 
Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves. 
Oh, rain me down "from your darks that 

contain me 
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that 

pain me, — 
Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet 
That advise me of more than they bring, — 

repeat 
Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now 

brought breath 
From the heaven-side bank of the river 
of death, — 
Teach me the terms of silence, — preach 

me 
The passion of patience, — sift me, — im- 
peach me, — 50 
And there, oh there 
As ye hang with your myriad palms up- 
turned in the air, 

Pray me a myriad prayer. 



My gossip, the owl, — is it thou 
That out of the leaves of the low-hang- 
ing bough, 
As I pass to the beach, art stirred? 
Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird? 



SIDNEY LANIER 



471 



Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the 

sea, 
Old chemist, rapt in alchemy, 

Distilling silence, — lo, ^^' 

That which our father-age had died to 

know — 
The menstruum that dissolves all matter 

— thou 
Hast found it : for this silence, filling now 
The globed clarity of receiving space, 
This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, 

disgrace. 
Death, love, sin, sanity. 
Must in yon silence' clear solution lie. 
Too clear ! That crystal nothing who'll 

peruse? 
The blackest night could bring us brighter 

news. 
Yet precious qualities of silence haunt 7o 
Round these vast margins, ministrant. 
Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space. 
With trying to breathe no bigger than thy 

race 
Just to be follow'd, when that thou hast 

found 
No man with room, or grace enough of 

bound 
To entertain that New thou tell'st, thou 

art,— 
'T is here, 't is here thou canst unhand 

thy heart 
And breathe it free, and breathe it free. 
By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. 

The tide 's at full : the marsh with flooded 
streams 80 

Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. 
Each winding creek in grave entrancement 

lies 
A rhapsody of morning-stars. The skies 
Shine scant with one forked galaxy, — 
The marsh brags ten : looped on his breast 
they lie 

Oh, what if a sound should be made! 

Oh, what if a bound sh/juld be laid 

To this bow-and-string tension of beauty 
and silence a-spring, — 

To the bend of beauty the bow, or the 
hold of silence the string! 

I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diapha- 
nous gleam 9° 

Will break as a bubble o'er-blown in a 
dream, — 

Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space 
and of night. 

Over-weighted with stars, over-freighted 
with light, 



Over-sated with beauty and silence, will 
seem 
But a bubble that broke in a dream, 
If a bound of degree lo this grace be 
laid. 
Or a sound or a motion made. 

But no : it is made : list ! somewhere, — 
mystery, where? 

In the leaves? in the air 
In my heart? is a motion made: 100 

'T is a motion of dawn, like a flicker of 

shade on shade. 
In the leaves 't is palpable: low multitu- 
dinous stirring 
Upwinds through the woods; the little 

ones, softly conferring. 
Have settled my lord's to be looked for; 

so; they are still; 
But the air and my heart and the earth 

are a-thrill, — 
And look where the wild duck sails round 
the bend of the river, — 
And look where a passionate shiver 
Expectant is bending the blades 
Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers 

and shades, — 
And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast 
fleeting, no 

Are beating 
The dark overhead as my heart beats, — 

and steady and free 
Is the eb?j-tide flowing from marsh to sea 
(Run home, little streams. 
With your lapfuls of stars and dreams), 
And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak, 
For list, down the inshore curve of the 
creek 
How merrily flutters the sail, — 

And lo, in the East! Will the East un- 
veil? 

The East is unveiled, the East hath con- 
fessed 120 

A flush: 't is dead; 't is alive: 't is dead, 
ere the West 

Was aware of it: nay, 't is abiding, 't is 
unwithdrawn : 
Have a care, sweet Heaven ! 'T is Dawn. 

Now a dream of a flame through that 

dream of a flush is uprolled 
To the zenith ascending, a dome of 

undazzling gold 
Is builded, in shape as a bee-hive, from 

out of the sea : 
The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, 

the Bee, 



472 



AMERICAN POETRY 



The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, 
Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee 
That shall flash from the hive-hole over 
the sea. ^3° 

Yet now the dew-drop, now the morn- 
ing gray. 
Shall live their little lucid sober day 
Ere with the sun their souls exhale 
away. 
Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew 
The summ'd morn shines complete as in 

the blue 
Big dew-drop of all heaven : with these 

Ht shrines 
O'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines, 
The sacramental marsh one pious plain 
Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign 
Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, 
Minded of nought but peace, and of a 
child. 141 

Not slower than Majesty moves, for a 
mean and a measure 

Of motion, — not Taster than dateless 
Olympian leisure 

Might pace with unblown ample garments 
from pleasure to pleasure, — 

The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, 
unreeling, 
Forever revealing, revealing, reveal- 
ing' 

Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise, 

— 't is done ! 

Good-morrow, lord Sun ! 

With several voice, with ascription one, 

The woods and the marsh and the sea 
and my soul 'So 

Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of 
all morrows doth roll, 

Cry good and past-good and most heav- 
enly morrow, lord Sun. 

O Artisan born in the purple, — Workman 

Heat,— 
Parter of passionate atoms that travail to 

meet 
And be mixed in the death-cold oneness, — 

innermost Guest 
At the marriage of elements, — fellow of 

publicans, — blest 
King in the blouse of flame, that loiter est 

o'er 
The idle skies, yet laborest fast ever- 
more, — 
Thou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in 

the beat 
Of the heart of a man, thou Motive, — 

Laborer Heat: 160 



Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea 's 

all news, 
With his inshore greens and manifold 

mid-sea blues, 
Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest 

hues 
Ever shaming the maidens, — lily and rose 
Confess thee, and each mild flame that 

glows 
In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones 

that shine. 

It is thine, it is thine: 

Thou chemist of storms, whether driving 

the winds a-swirl 
Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar 

that whirl 
In the magnet earth, — yea, thou with a 

storm for a heart, ^7o 

Rent with debate, many-spotted with 

question, part 
From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed 

light. 
Yet ever the artist, ever more large and 

bright 
Than the eye of a man may avail of: — 

manifold One, 
I must pass from thy face, I must pass 

from the face of the Sun : 
Old Want is awake and agog, every 

wrinkle a- frown; 
The worker must pass to his work in 

the terrible town : 
But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the 

thing to be done; 
I am strong with the strength of my 

lord the Sun : 
How dark, how dark soever the race that 

must needs be run, 180 

I am Ht with the Sun. 

Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas 

Of traffic shall hide thee. 
Never the hell-colored smoke of the fac- 
tories 

Hide thee. 
Never the reek of the time's fen-politics 

Hide thee. 
And ever my heart through the night shall 

with knowledge abide thee, 
And ever by day shall my spirit, as one 
that hath tried thee. 
Labor, at leisure, in art, — till yonder 
beside thee 190 

My soul shall float, friend Sun, 
The day being done. 



1880. 



The Independent, Dec, 1882. 



WALT WHITMAN 
(1819-1892) 

THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH i 

There was a child went forth every day; 
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became; 

And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or 
for many years, or stretching cycles of years. 

The early Hlacs became part of this child, 

And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the 

song of the phoebe-bird, 
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, 

and the cow's calf, 
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side. 
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there — and the beautiful 

curious liquid. 
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads — all became part of him. 

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him; lo 

Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of 
the garden. 

And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood- 
berries, and the commonest weeds by the road; 

And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence 
he had lately risen. 

And the school-mistress that pass'd on her way to the school, 

And the friendly boys that pass'd — and the quarrelsome boys, 

And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls — and the barefoot negro boy and girl, 

And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went. 

His own parents, 

He that had father'd him, and she that had conceiv'd him in her womb, and birth'd 

him. 
They gave this child more of themselves than that; 20 

They gave him afterward every day — they became part of him. 

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table; 

The mother with mild words — clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off 
her person and clothes as she walks by; 

The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust; 

The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure, 

The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture — the yearning and swell- 
ing heart, 

Affection that will not be gainsay' d — the sense of what is real — the thought if, after 
all, it should prove unreal, 

The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time — the curious whether and how. 

Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks? 

Men and women crowding fast in the streets — if they are not flashes and specks, 
what are they? 30 

* This is a record of his recollections from childhood country life on Long Island. 

473 



474 AMERICAN POETRY 

The streets themselves, and the fagades of houses, and goods in the windows, 
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves — the huge crossing at the ferries. 
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset — the river between. 
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, 

three miles olif, 
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide — the little boat slack-tow'd 

astern. 
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping. 
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itself — 

the spread of purity it Hes motionless in. 
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud; 
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and 

will always go forth every day. 

First published in 1855. In edition of 1856 under title of "Poem of the Child That Went 
Forth and Always Goes Forth, Forever and Forever." 

From WALT WHITMAN 

1 
1 celebrate myself ;i 
And what I assume you shall assume ; 
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you. 

I loafe and invite my Soul; 

I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. 

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes — the shelves are crowded with perfumes; 

I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it ; 

The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. 

The atmosphere is not a perfume — it has no taste of the distillation — it is odorless; 
It is for my mouth forever — I am in love with it ; lo 

I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked ; 
I am mad for it to be in contact with me. 

2 

The smoke of my own breath; 

Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine; 

My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and 
air through my lungs ; 

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color'd sea- 
rocks, and of hay in the barn; 

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice, words loos'd to the eddies of the wind; 

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms; 

The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag; 

The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides; 20 

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meet- 
ing the sun. 

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much? 

Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? 

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? 

^ "I meant 'Leaves of Grass,' as published, to be the Poem of average Identity (of yo^trs, who- 
ever you are, now reading these lines) . . . All serves, helps — but in the center of all, absorbing 
all, giving, for your purpose, the only meaning and vitality to all, master or mistress of all, under 
the law, stands Yourself. To sing the Song of that law of average Identity, and of Yourself, con- 
sistently with the divine law of the universal, is a main purpose of these 'Leaves'." (See Whitman's 
Preface to the 1876 edition of "Leaves of Grass.") 



1 



WALT WHITMAN 475 

Stop this day and night with mc, and you shall possess the origin of all poems ; 
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun — (there are millions of suns left;) 
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of 

the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books; 
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me: 
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself. 



A child said. What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; 30 

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he. 

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. 

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, 
A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt, 

Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, 
and say, Whose t 

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. 

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic; 

And it means. Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones. 

Growing among Ijlack folks as among white; 39 

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. 

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. 

Tenderly will 1 use you, curling grass ; 

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men; 

I.t may be if I had known them I would have loved them; 

It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon 

out of their mothers' laps; 
And here you are the mothers' laps. 

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers; 

Darker than the colorless beards of old men ; 

Dark to" come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. 

I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! So 
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. 

1 wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women. 

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their 
laps. 

What do you think has become of the young and old men? 
And what do you think has become of the women and children? 

They are alive and well somewhere; 

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death; 

And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it. 

And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. 

All goes onward and outward — nothing collapses; 60 

And to die is different frorn what any one supposed, and luckier, 



476 AMERICAN POETRY 



The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready; 
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon; 
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged; 
The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow. 

I am there — I help — I came stretch' d atop of the load; 

I felt its soft jolts — one leg reclined on the other; 

I jump from the cross-beams, and seize the clover and timothy, 

And roll head over heels, and tangle my hair full of wisps. 

10 

Alone, far in the wilds and mountains, I hunt, 7° 

Wandering, amazed at my own lightness and glee; 

In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night. 

Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game; 

Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves, with my dog and gun by my side. 

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails — she cuts the sparkle and scud ; 
My eyes settle the land — I bend at her prow, or shout joyously from the deck. 

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me; 

I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots, and went and had a good time : 

(You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.) 

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west — the bride was a 

red girl; 8o 

Her father and his friends sat near, cross-legged and dumbly smoking — they had 

moccasins to their feet, and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders ; 
On a bank lounged the trapper — he was drest mostly in skins — his luxuriant beard 

and curls protected his neck — he held his bride by the hand ; 
She had long eyelashes — her head was bare — her coarse straight locks descended upon 

her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet. 

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside; 

I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile; 

Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, 

And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured him, 

And brought water, and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd feet, 

And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some coarse clean 

clothes, 
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, 9° 

And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles ; 
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north; 
(I had him sit next me at table — my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.) 

12 

The butcher-boy puts off his killing clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the 

market ; 
I loiter, enjoying his repartee, and his shuffle and break-down. 

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil; 

Each has his main-sledge — they are all out — (there is a great heat in the fire). 

From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements ; 

The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms ; 

Over-hand the hammers swing — over-hand so slow — over-hand so sure : loo 

They do not hasten — each man hits in his place, 



WALT WHITMAN 477 

13 

The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses — the block swags underneath 

on its tied-over chain; 
The negro that drives the dray of the stone-yard — steady and tall he stands, pois'd 

on one leg on the string-piece; 
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast, and loosens over his hip-band; 
His glance is calm and commanding — he tosses the slouch of his hat away from 

his forehead; 
The sun falls on his crispy hair and moustache — falls on the black of his polish'd 

and perfect limbs. 

I behold the j)icturesque giant, and love him — and I do not stop there; 
I go with the team also. 

In me the caresser of life wherever moving — backward as well as forward slueing; 
To niches aside and junior bending. ^'o 

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain, or halt in the leafy shade ! what is that you 

express in your eyes? 
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. 

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck, on my distant and day-long ramble; 
They rise together — they slowly circle around. 

I believe in those wing'd purposes, 

And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me. 

And consider green and violet, and the tufted crown, intentional; 

And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else ; 

And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me; 

And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. 120 

14 

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night; 
Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation; 
(The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen close; 
I find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.) 

The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the 

prairie-dog. 
The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, 
The brood of the turkey-hen, and she with her half-spread wings; 
I see in them and myself the same old law. 

The press of my feet to the earth springs a hundred affections; 

They scorn the best I can do to relate them. 130 

I am enamor'd of growing out-doors. 

Of men that live among cattle, or taste of the ocean or woods. 

Of the builders and steerers of ships, and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the 

drivers of horses; 
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. 

What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me ; 
Me going in for my chance, spending for vast returns ; 
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me; 
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will; 
Scattering it freely forever 



478 AMERICAN POETRY 

16 

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise; ^4° 

Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, 

Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, 

Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse, and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine; 

One of the Great Nation, the nation of many nations, the smallest the same, and 
the largest the same; 

A southerner soon as a northerner — a planter nonchalant and hospitable, down by 
the Oconee I live ; 

A Yankee, bound by my own way, read}' for trade, my joints the limberest joints 
on earth, and the sternest joints on earth; 

A Kentuckian, walking the vale of the Elkhorn, in my deer-skin leggings — a Louisi- 
anian or Georgian; 

A boatman over lakes or bays, or along coasts — a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye; 

At home on Kanadian snow-shoes, or up in the bush, or with fishermen off New- 
foundland ; 

At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking; ^so 

At home on the hills of Vermont, or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan ranch; 

Comrade of Californians — comrade of free north-westerners, (loving their big pro- 
portions;) 

Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen — comrade of all who shake hands and welcome 
to drink and meat; 

A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfuUest; 

A novice beginning, yet experient of myriads of seasons; 

Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion; 

A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker; 

A prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest. 

I resist anything better than my own diversity; 

I breathe the air, but leave plenty after me, iC" 

And am not stuck up, and am in my place. 

(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place; 

The suns I see, and the suns I cannot see, are in their place; 

The palpable is in its place, and the impalpable is in its place.) 

17 

These are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands — they are not original 

with me; 
If they are not yours as much as mine, they are nothing, or next to nothing; 
If they are not the riddle, and the untying of the riddle, they are nothing; 
If they are not just as close as they are distant, they are nothing. 

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is, and the water is; 

This is the common air that bathes the globe. ^7o 

20 

Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude; 
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? 

What is a man, anyhow? What am I? What are you? 

All I mark as my own, you shall offset it with your own; 
Else it were time lost listening to me. 

I do not snivel that snivel the world over, 

That months are vacuums, and the ground but wallow and filth ; 
That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at the end but threadbare crape, 
and tears. 



WALT WHITMAN 479 

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids — conformity goes to the 

fourth-remov'd ; 
I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out. i8o 

Why should I pray? Why should I venerate and be ceremonious? 

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsell'd with doctors, and 

calculated close, 
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. 

In all people I see myself — none more, and not one a barleycorn less; 
And the good or bad I say of myself, I say of them. 

And I know I am solid and sound; 

To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow; 

All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. 

I know I am deathless; 

I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter's compass; 190 

I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. 

I know I am august; 

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood; 

I see that the elementary laws never apologize; 

(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.) 

I exist as I am — that is enough; 

If no other in the world be aware, I sit content; 

And if each and all be aware, I sit content. 

One world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself; 

And whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years, ^° 

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. 

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite; 
I laugh at what you call dissolution; 
And I know the amplitude of time. 



I am the poet of the Body; 
And I am the poet of the Soul. 



21 



The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains of hell are with me; 
The first I graft and increase upon myself — the latter I translate into 
tongue. 

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man; 
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man; 
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. 

I chant the chant of dilation or pride; 

We have had ducking and deprecating about enough ; 

I show that size is only development. 

Have you outstript the rest? Are you the President? 

It is a trifle — they will more than arrive there, every one, and still pass on. 

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night; 
I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night. 



480 AMERICAN POETRY 

Press close, bare-bosom'd night ! Press close, magnetic, nourishing night ! 

Night of south winds! night of the large few stars! aao 

Still, nodding night ! mad, naked, summer night. 

Smile. O voluptuous, cool-breath'd earth ! 

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees; 

Earth of departed sunset; earth of the mountains, misty-topt ! 

Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon, just tinged with blue ! 

Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the river ! 

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake ! 

Far-swooping elbow'd earth ! rich, apple-blossom'd earth ! 

Smile, for your lover comes ! 

Prodigal, you have given me love! Therefore I to you give love! «30 

imspeakable, passionate love ! 

31 

1 believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars. 

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren. 
And the tree-toad is a chef-d"ceuvre for the highest. 
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven. 
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, 
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue. 
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. 
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer's girl boiling 
her iron tea-kettle and baking short-cake. 

I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, 240 
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over. 
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons. 
And call anything close again, when I desire it. 

In vain the speeding or shyness ; 

In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach ; 

In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones ; 

In vain objects stand leagues oft', and assume manifold shapes; 

In vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great monsters lying low; 

In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky ; 

In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs ; 250 

In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods; 

In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador; 

I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. 

32 

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd ; 
I stand and- look at them long and long. 

The}' do not sweat and whine about their condition; 

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins ; 

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God ; 

Not one is dissatisfied — not one is demented with the mania of owning things; 

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago; 260 

Not ohe is respectable or industrious over the whole earth. 

So they show their relations to me, and I accept them; 

They bring me tokens of myself — they evince them plainly in their possession. 



WALT WHITMAN 481 

I wonder where they get those tokens : 

Did I pass that way huge times ago, and neghgently drop them? 

Myself moving forward then and now and forever, 

Gathering and showing more always and with velocity. 

Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them; 

Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers ; 

Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. 270 

A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, 

Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, 

Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground. 

Eyes full of sparkling wickedness — ears finely cut, flexibly moving. 

His nostrils dilate, as my heels embrace him; 

His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure, as we race around and return. 

I but use you a moment, then I resign you, stallion; 
Why do I need your paces, when I myself out-gallop them? 
Even, as I stand or sit, passing faster than you. 

34 

Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth; 280 

(I tell not the fall of Alamo, 

Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, 

The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo;) 

'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men. 

Retreating, they had form'd in a hollow square, with their baggage for breast- 
works ; 

Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine times their number, was 
the price they took in advance; 

Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone; 

They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up 
their arms, and march'd back prisoners of war. 

They were the glory of the race of rangers; 

Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, 290 

Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, 

Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, 

Not a single one over thirty years of age. 

The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads, and massacred — 

it was beautiful early summer; 
The work commenced about five o'clock, and was over by eight. 

None obey'd the command to kneel; 

Some made a mad and helpless rush — some stood stark and straight ; 

A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart — the living and dead lay together; 

The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt — the newcomers saw them there; 

Some, half-kill'd, attempted to crawl away; 300 

These were despatch'd with bayonets, or batter'd with the blunts of muskets; 

A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more came to release 

him; 
The three were all torn, and cover'd with the boy's blood. 

At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies: 

That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men. 



482 AMERICAN POETRY 

35 

Would you hear of an old-fashion'd sea-fight? 

Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? 

List to the story as my grandmother's father, the sailor, told it to me. 

Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, (said he;) 

His was the surly English pluck — and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, 
and never will be; 310 

Along the lower'd eve he came, horribly raking us. 

We closed with him — the yards entangled — the cannon touch'd; 
My captain lash'd fast with his own hands. 

We had receiv'd some eighteen-pound shots under the water ; 

On our lower gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around, 
and blowing up overhead. 

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark; 

Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet 

of water reported; 
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the afterhold, to give them 

a chance for themselves. 

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, 

They see so many strange faces, they do not know whom to trust. 320 

Our frigate takes fire ; 

The other asks if we demand quarter? 

If our colors are struck, and the fighting is done? 

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain. 

We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the 
fighting. 

Only three guns are in use; 

One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's mainmast; 

Two, well served with grape and canister, silence his musketry and clear his decks. 

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top; 

They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. 33° 

Not a moment's cease; 

The leaks gain fast on the pumps — the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. 

One of the pumps has been shot away — it is generally thought we are sinking. 

Serene stands the little captain ; 

He is not hurried — his voice is neither high nor low; 

His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns. 

Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the moon, they surrender to us. 

36 
Stretch'd and still lies the midnight; 

Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness; 

Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking — preparations to pass to the one we have 
conquered ; 34° 



WALT WHITMAN 483 

The captain on tlie quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance 
white as a sheet; 

Near by, the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin; 

The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl'd whiskers; 

The flames, spite of all that can be done, flickering aloft and below; 

The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty; 

Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by themselves — dabs of flesh upon the masts 
and spars, 

Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves, 

Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent. 

Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death- 
messages given in charge to survivors. 

The hiss of the- surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw, 350 

Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering 
groan ; 

These so — these irretrievable. 

44 
It is time to explain myself — Let us stand up. 

What is known I strip away; 

I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. 

The clock indicates the moment — but what does eternity indicate? 

We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers ; 
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. 

Births have brought us richness and variety, _ 

And other births will bring us richness and variety. 360 

I do not call one greater and one smaller; 

That which fills its period and place is equal to any. 

Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister? 
I am sorry for you — they are not murderous or jealous upon me; 
All has been gentle with me — I keep no account with lamentation; 
(What have I to do with lamentation?) 

I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be. 

My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs; 

On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps ; 

All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount. Z7° 

Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me; 

Afar down I see the huge first Nothing — I know I was even there; 
I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist. 
And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. 

Long I was hugged close — long and long. 

Immense have been the preparations for me. 
Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd me. 

Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen; 

For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings; 

They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. 380 



■ 



484 AMERICAN POETRY 

Before I was bom out of my mother, generations guided me; 
Aly embryo has never been ' torpid — nothing could overlay it. 

For it the nebula cohered to an orb. 

The long slow strata piled to rest it on, 

\'ast vegetables gave it sustenance. 

Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths, and deposited it with care. 

All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me; 
Now on tliis spot I stand with my robust Soul. 

46 

I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured, and never will 
be measured. 

I tramp a perpetual journey — (come listen all I) 390 

My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods; 

No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair; 

I have no chair, no church, no philosophy ; 

I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, or exchange; 

But each man and each woman of \ou I lead upon a knoll, 

Aly left hand hooking you round the waist, 

Aly right hand pointing to landscapes of continents, and a plain public road. 

Not I — not any one else, can travel that road for you, 
You must travel ft for yourself. 

It is not far — it is within reach; 400 

Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know; 
Perhaps it is every where on water and on land. 

Shoulder your duds, dear son. and I will mine, and let us hasten forth. 
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. 

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, 
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me; 
For after we start, we never lie by again. 

This day before dawn I ascended a hill, and look'd at the crowded heaven. 

And I said to my Spirit, IJ'hoi ivc become the enf alders of those orbs, and the 

pleasure and knowledge of everything in them, shall zi'e be fill'd and satisfied 

then? 
And my Spirit said, iVo, u'e but lez'cl that lift, to pass and continue beyond. 410 

You are also asking me questions, and I hear you; 

I answer that I cannot answer — you must find out for yourself. 

Sit a while, dear son; 

Here are biscuits to eat, and here is milk to drink; 

But as soon as you sleep, and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a 
good-bye kiss, and open the gate for your egress hence. 

Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams ; 
Now I wash the gum from your eyes ; 

You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light, and of every moment of your 
life. 



WALT WHITMAN 485 

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore; 

Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, 420 

To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly 
dash with your hair. 

48 

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, 

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul; 

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is, 

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy, walks to his own funeral, drest 

in his shroud, 
And I or you, pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth, 
And to glance with an eye, or show a bean in its pod, confounds the learning of 

all times. 
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become 

a hero, 
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe, 
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a 

million universes. 43° 

And I say to mankind. Be not curious about God, 

For I, who am curious about each, am not curious about God; 

(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God, and about death.) 

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least, 
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. 

Why should I wish to see God better than this day? 

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then; 

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass; 

I find letters from God dropt in the street — and every one is sign'd by God's name. 

And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go, 440 

Others will punctually come forever and ever. 

49 

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me. 

To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes; 
I see the elder-hand, pressing, receiving, supporting; 
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, 
And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. 

And as to you. Corpse, I think you are good manure — but that does not offend me; 

I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, 

I reach to the leafy lips — I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons. 

And as to you Life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths ; 4So 

(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.) 

I hear you whispering there, O stars of heaven ; 

O suns! O grass of graves! O perpetual transfers and promotions! 

If you do not say anything, how can I say anything? 

Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest. 

Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, 

Toss, sparkles of day and dusk! toss on the black stems that decay in the muck! 

Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. 



486 



AMERICAN POETRY 



I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night ; 

I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected; 

And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small. 

SO 

There is that in me — I do not know what it is — but I know it is in me. 

Wrenched and sweaty — calm and cool then my body becomes; 
I sleep — I sleep long. 

I do not know it — it is without name — it is a word unsaid; 
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol. 

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on; 
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me. 

Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines ! I plead for my brothers and sisters. 

Do you see, O my brothers and sisters? 470 

It is not chaos or death — it is form, union, plan — it is eternal life — it is Happiness. 



-52 

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me — he complains of my gab and my 

loitering. 

I too am not a bit tamed — I too am untranslatable; 

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. 

The last scud of day holds back for me; 

It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the shadow'd wilds; 

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk. 

I depart as air — I shake my white locks at the runaway sun; 
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. 



I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love; 
If you want me again* look for me under j-our boot-soles. 

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean; 
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless. 
And filter and fibre your blood. 

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged; 
Missing me one place, search another ; 
I stop somewhere, waiting for you. 



480 



1855. 



From SONG OF THE BROAD-AXE 



1 



Weapon, shapely, naked, wan ! 

Head from the mother's bowels drawn ! 

Wooded flesh, and metal bone ! limb only one, and lip only one ! 

Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown ! helve produced from a little seed sown ! 

Resting the grass amid and upon, 

To be lean'd, and to lean on. 



WALT WHITMAN 487 

Strong shapes, and attributes of strong shapes — masculine trades, sights and sounds; 

Long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music; 

Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the great organ. 

4 

Muscle and pluck forever ! lo 

What invigorates life, invigorates death, 

And the dead advance as much as the living advance, 

And the future is no more uncertain than the present. 

And the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as much as the delicatesse of 

the earth and of man, 
And nothing endures but personal qualities. 

What do you think endures? 

Do you think the great city endures? 

Or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared constitution? or the best-built 
steamships? 

Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chef-d'oeuvres of engineering, forts, arma- 
ments? 

Away! These are not to be cherish'd for themselves; 20 

They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them; 
The show passes, all does well enough of course. 
All does very well till one flash of defiance. 

The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman; 

If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world. 

S 

The place where the great city stands is not the place of stretch'd wharves, docks, 

manufactures, deposits of produce. 
Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers, or the anchor-lifters of the 

departing, 
Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings, or shops selling goods from 

the rest of the earth, 
Nor the place of the best libraries and schools — nor the place where money is 

plentiest. 
Nor the place of the most numerous population. 3° 

Where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and bards; 

Where the city stands that is beloved by these, and loves them in return, and 

understands them; 
Where no monuments exist to heroes, but in the common words and deeds; 
Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place; 
Where the men and women think lightly of the laws; 
Where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases ; 
Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of elected 

persons ; 
Where fierce men and women pour forth, as the sea to the whistle of death pours 

its sweeping and unript waves; 
Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside authority; 
Where the citizen is always the head and ideal — and President, Mayor, Governor, 

and what not, are agents for pay; 40 

Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on themselves; 
Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs; 
Where speculations on the Soul are encouraged; 

Where women walk in public processions in the streets, the same as the men, 
Where they enter the pubHc assembly and take places the same as the men; 



488 - AMERICAN POETRY 

Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands; 

Where the city of the cleanHness of the sexes stands; 

Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands; 

Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands, 

There the great city stands. 5° 

8 

I see the European headsman; 

He stands mask'd, clothed in red, with huge legs, and strong naked arms, 

And leans on a ponderous axe. 

(Whom have you slaughter'd lately, European headsman? 
Whose is that blood upon you, so wet and sticky?) 

I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs; 

I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts, 

Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown'd ladies, impeach'd ministers, rejected kings, 

Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains, and the rest. 

I see those who in any land have died for the good cause; & 

The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out; 

(Mind you, O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall never run out.) 

I see the blood wash'd entirely away from the axe; 
Both blade and helve are clean; 

They spirt no more the blood of European nobles — they clasp no more the necks 
of queens. 

I see the headsman withdraw and become useless; 

I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy — I see no longer any axe upon it; 
I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my own race — the newest, 
largest race. 

10 

The shapes arise ! 

The shape measur'd, saw'd, jack'd, join'd, stain' d, 7° 

The coffin-shape for the dead to lie within in his shroud; 

The shape got out in posts, in the bedstead posts, in the posts of the bride's bed; 

The shape of the little trough, the shape of the rockers beneath, the shape of the 

babe's cradle; 
The shape of . the floor-planks, the floor-planks for dancers' feet; 
The shape of the planks of the family home, the home of the friendly parents and 

children, 
The shape of the roof of the home of the happy young man and woman — the roof 

over the well-married young man and woman, 
The roof over the supper joyously cook'd by the chaste wife, and joyously eaten 

by the chaste husband, content after his day's work. 

The shapes arise ! 

The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her seated in 
the place; 

The shape of the liquor-bar lean'd against by the j^oung rum-drinker and the old 
rum-drinker ; So 

The shape of the shamed and angry stairs, trod by sneaking footsteps; 

The shape of the sly settee, and the adulterous unwholesome couple; 

The shape of the gambling-board with its devilish winnings and losings; 

The shape of the step-ladder for the convicted and sentenced murderer, the mur- 
derer with haggard face and pinion'd arms, 

The sheriff at hand with his deputies, the silent and white-lipp'd crowd, the dangling 
of the rope. 



WALT WHITMAN 489 

The shapes arise ! 

Shapes of doors giving many exits and entrances; 
The door passing the dissever'd friend, flush'd and in haste; 
The door that admits good news and bad news ; 

The door whence the son left home, confident and puff'd up; 90 

The door he enter'd again from a long and scandalous absence, diseas'd, broken 
down, without innocence, without means. 

12 
The main shapes arise! 

Shapes of Democracy, total — result of centuries; 
Shapes, ever projecting other shapes; 
Shapes of turbulent manly cities; 

Shapes of the friends and home-givers of the whole earth. 
Shapes bracing the earth, and braced with the whole earth. 

1856. 

From SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD 



Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, 

Healthy, free, the world before me. 

The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. 

Henceforth I ask not good- fortune — I myself am good fortune; 
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing. 
Strong and content, I travel the open road. 

The earth — that is sufficient; 

I do not want the constellations any nearer; 

I know they are very well where they are; 

I know they suffice for those who belong to them. 

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens; 

I carry them, men and women — I carry them with me wherever I go; 

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them; 

I am fiU'd with them, and I will fill them in return.) 



You road I enter upon and look around ! I believe you are not all that is here ; 
I believe that much unseen is also here. 

Here the profound leSson of reception, neither preference or denial; 

The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the illiterate person, are 

not denied; 
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's 

stagger, the laughing party of mechanics. 
The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, 20 

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the 

return back from the town. 
They pass — I also pass — anything passes — none can be interdicted; 
None but are accepted — none but are dear to me. 



You air that serves me with breath to speak! 

You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them shape! 



490 AMERICAN POETRY 

You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers ! 

You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides ! 

I think you are latent with unseen existences — you are so dear to me. 

You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! 

You ferries ! you planks and posts of wharves ! you timber-lined sides ! you distant 

ships ! 30 

You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd f aqades ! you roofs! 
You porches and entrances ! you copings and iron guards ! 
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much ! 
You doors and ascending steps ! you arches ! 
You gray stones of interminable pavements I you trodden crossings! 
From all that has been near you, I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and 

now would impart the same secretly to me ; 
From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, 

and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me. 

4 

The earth expanding right hand and left hand, 

The picture alive, every part in its best light. 

The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, 4° 

The cheerful voice of the public road — the gay fresh sentiment of the road. 

O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me. Do not leave me? 

Do you say, J'cnturc iiotf If you Icazu- mc, you arc lostf 

Do you say, / a>n already prepared — / am zvell-beaten and undcnied — adhere to me? 

public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you — ^yet I love you; 
You express me better than I can express myself; 

You shall be more to me than my poem. 

1 think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air, and all great poems also; 
I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles ; 

(My judgments, thoughts, I henceforth try by the open air, the road;) 5° 

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me 

shall like me ; 
I think whoever I see must be happy. 



Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me; 

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd, it would not astonish me. 

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons. 

It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth. 

Here a great personal deed has room; 

A great deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men. 
Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law, and mocks all authority and all 
argument against it. 

Here is the test of wisdom; 60 

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools ; 

Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it, to another not having it; 

Wisdom is of the Soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof, 

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities, and is content. 

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of 

things ; 
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the 

Soul. 



1 



WALT WHITMAN 491 

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions, 

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious 
clouds, and along the landscape and flowing currents. 

Here is realization; 

Here is a man taUied — he realizes here what he has in him ; 70 

The past, the future, majesty, love — if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of 
them. 

Only the kernel of every object nourishes; 

Where is he who tears oif the husks for you and me? 

Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me? 

Here is adhesiveness — it is not previously fashion' d — it is apropos; 
Do you know what it is, as you pass, to be loved by strangers? 
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls? 



Allons ! whoever you are, come travel with me! 
Traveling with me, you find what never tires. 

The earth never tires ; 80 

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first — Nature is rude and incompre- 
hensible at first ; 

Be not discouraged — keep on — there are divine things, well envelop'd; 

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. 

Allons ! we must not stop here ! 

However sweet these laid-up stores — however convenient this dwelling, we cannot 

remain here; 
However shelter'd this port, and however calm these waters, we must not anchor 

here ; 
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we are permitted to receive 

it but a little while. 

10 

Allons! the inducements shall be greater; 
We will sail pathless and wild seas; 

We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under 
full sail. 90 

Allons ! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements ! 
Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity; 

Allons ! from all f ormules ! 

From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests ! 

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage — the burial waits no longer. 

Allons ! yet take warning ! 

He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance; 

None may come to the trial, till he or she bring courage and health. 

Come not here if you have not already spent the best of j^ourself ; 

Only those may come, who come in sweet and determin'd bodies; ^°° 

No diseas'd person — no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here. 

I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes; 
We convince by our presence. 



492 AMERICAN POETRY 

11 

Listen ! I will be honest with you ; 

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes; 

These are the days that must happen to you : 

You shall not heap up what is call'd riches, 

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, 

You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd — you hardly settle yourself to 

satisfaction, before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart, 
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind 

you ; "0 

What beckonings of love you receive, you shall only answer with passionate kisses 

of parting, 
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you. 

14 

The Soul travels; 

The body does not travel as much as the soul; 

The body has just as great a work as the soul, and parts away at last for the 
journeys of the soul. 

All parts away for the progress of souls; 

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments, — all that was or is apparent upon this 

globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of Souls 

along the grand roads of the universe. 

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the uni- 
verse, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance. 

Forever alive, forever forward, 

Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baflfled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied, 120 

Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men, 

They go ! they go ! I know that they go, but I know not where they go ; 

But I know that they go toward the best — toward something great. 

16 

AUons ! through struggles and wars ! 

The goal that was named cannot be countermanded. 

Have the past struggles succeeded? 

What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? nature? 

Now understand me well — It is provided in the essence of things, that from any 

fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a 

greater struggle necessary. 

My call is the call of battle — I nourish active rebellion; 

He going with me must go well arm'd; 130 

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions. 

17 
AUons ! the road is before us ! 
It is safe — I have tried it — my own feet have tried it well. 

Allons ! be not detain'd ! 

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd ! 
Let the tools remain in the workshop ! let the money remain unearn'd ! 
Let the school stand ! mind not the cry of the teacher ! 

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the 
judge expound the law. 



WALT WHITMAN 493 

Mon enfant! I give you my hand! 

I give you my love, more precious than money, 140 

I give you myself, before preaching or law; 

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? 

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? 

First published in 1856. In that edition and that of 1860 under title of "Poem of the Road." 

CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY i 
1 

Flood-tide below me ! I watch you face to face ; 

Clouds of the west ! sun there half an hour high ! I see you also face to face. 

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes ! how curious you are to me ! 
On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more 

curious to me than you suppose; 
And you that shall cross from sho'-e to shore years hence, are more to me, and more 

in my meditations, than you might suppose. 



The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day; 

The simple, compact, well-join'd scheme — myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated, 

yet part of the scheme : 
The similitudes of the past, and those of the future; 
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings — on the walk in the 

street, and the passage over the river; 
The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away; lo 

The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them; 
The certainty of others — the life, love, sight, hearing of others. 

Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore; 

Others will watch the run of the flood-tide ; 

Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn 

to the south and east; 
Others will see the islands large and small; 

Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high; 
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, 
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of 

the ebb-tide. 

3 

It avails not, neither time or place — distance avails not; 20 

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations 

hence; 
I project myself — also I return — I am with you, and know how it is. 

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt; 

Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd; 

Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was 

ref resh'd ; 
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet 

was hurried; 
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem'd pipes of 

steamboats, I look'd. 

^ Living in Brooklyn or New York City from this time forward, my life then, and still more 
the following years, was curiously identified with Fulton Ferry. ... I have always had a 
passion for ferries; to me they afford inimitable, streaming, never-failing poems. (Whitmat^ in 
"Specimen Days.") 



494 AMERICAN POETRY 

I, too, many and many a time cross'd the river, tlie sun half an hour high; 

I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls — I saw them high in the air, floating with 

motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, 
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in 

strong shadow, 30 

I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south. 

I, too, saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, 

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, 

Look'd at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the 
sun-lit water, 

Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward, 

Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, 

Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships, 

Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me. 

Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops — saw the ships at anchor, 

The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride' the spars, 4° 

The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants. 

The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, 

The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels. 

The flags of all nations, the faUing of them at sun-set. 

The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and 
glistening, 

The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store- 
houses by the docks, 

On the river the shadowy group, the big" steam-tug closely flank'd on each side by 
the barges — the hay-boat, the belated lighter. 

On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and 
glaringly into the night, 

Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the 
tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets. 



These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you; 5° 

I project myself a moment to tell you — also I return. 

I loved well those cities; 

I loved well the stately and rapid river ; 

The men and women I saw were all near to me ; 

Others the same — others who look back on me, Jsecause I look'd forward to them. 

(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.) 

5 

What is it, then, between us? 

What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? 

Whatever it is, it avails not — distance avails not, and place avails not. 



I too lived — Brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine; 60 

I too walk'd the streets of Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters around it; 

I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, 

In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me. 

In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me. 

I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution; 
I too had receiv'd identity by my Body; 

That I was, I knew was of my body — and what I should be, I knew I should be of 
my body. 



WALT WHITMAN 495 



It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, 
The dark patches threw down upon me also ; 

The best I had done seemed to me blank and suspicious ; 7" 

My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they not in reality meager? would not 
people laugh at them? 

It is not you alone who knows what it is to be evil; 

I am he who knew what it was to be evil; 

I, too, knitted the old knot of contrariety, 

Blabb'd, blush'd, resented, lied, stole, grudg'd. 

Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak. 

Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant; 

The wolf, the snake, the hog not wanting in me. 

The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting, 

Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting. 80 



But I was Manhattanese, friendly and proud ! 

I was called by my nighest name by clear, loud voices of young men as they saw me 

approaching or passing; 
Felt their arms on my neck as they stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh 

against me as I sat. 
Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or pubHc assembly, yet never told 

them a word. 
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping, 
Play'd the part that still looks back on the actor or actress. 
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like. 
Or as small as we like, or both great and small. 

9 

Closer yet I approach you ; 89 

What thought you have of me, I had as much of you — I laid in my stores in advance; 
I consider'd long and seriously of you before you were born. 

Who was to know what should come home to me? 

Who knows but I am enjoying this? 

Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me? 

It is not you alone, nor I alone; 

Not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries; 

It is that each came, or comes, or shall come, from its due emission. 

From the general center of all, and forming a part of all: 

Everything indicates— the smallest does, and the largest does; 

A necessary film envelopes all, and envelopes the Soul for a proper time. i°o 

10 

Now I am curious what sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me than my 

mast-hemm'd Manhattan, 
My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edg'd waves of flood-tide, 
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated 

lighter ; 
Curious what Gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I 

love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach ; 
Curious what is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks 

in my face. 
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you. 



496 AMERICAN POETRY 

We understand, then, do we not? 

What I promis'd without mentioning it, have you not accepted? 

What the study could not teach — what the preaching could not accomplish, is accom- 

plish'd, is it not? 
What the push of reading could not start, is started by me personally, is it not? "" 

11 

Flow on, river ! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide ! 

Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg'd waves ! 

Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set ! drench with your splendor me, or the men and 

women generations after me; 
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers ! 
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta ! — stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn ! 
Throb, bafiled and curious brain ! throw out questions and answers ! 
Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution ! 
Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house, or street, or public assembly ! 
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! 
Live, old life ! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress ! 120 

Play the old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes it ! 
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon 

you ; 
Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting 

current ; 
Fly on, sea-birds! fly-sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; 
Receive the summer sky, you water! and faithfully hold it, till all downcast eyes have 

time to take it from you; 
Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one's head, in the 

sun-lit water; 
Come on, ships from the lower bay ! pass up or down, white-sail'd schooners, sloops, 

lighters ! 
Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower'd at sunset; 
Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys ! cast black shadows at nightfall ! cast red 

and yellow light over the tops of the houses; 
Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are; 130 

You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul; 

About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas; 
Thrive, cities! bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers; 
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual; 
Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting. 

12 

We descend upon you and all things — we arrest you all; 
We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids; 
Through you color, form, location, sublimity, ideality; 

Through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and determinations 
of ourselves. 

You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers ! you novices ! 140 

We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward; 

Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us; 

We use you, and do not cast you aside — we plant you permanently within us; 

We fathom you not — we love you — there is perfection in you also; 

You furnish your parts toward eternity. 

Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul. 

First published under title of "Sun-Down Poem" in 1856. 



WALT WHITMAN 497 

From AS I SAT ALONE BY BLUE ONTARIO'S SHORE 



I listened to the Phantom by Ontario's shore, 
I heard the voice arising, demanding bards; 

By them, all native and grand — by them alone can The States be fused into the 
compact organism of a Nation. 

To hold men together by paper and seal, or by compulsion, is no account; 
That only holds men together w^hich aggregates all in a living principle, as the hold 
of the limbs of the body, or the fibers of plants. 

Of all races and eras, These States, w^ith veins full of poetical stuff, most need poets, 

and are to have the greatest, and use them the greatest; 
Their Presidents shall not be their common referee so much as their poets shall. 

(Soul of love, and tongue of fire! 

Eye to pierce the deepest deeps, and sweep the world ! 

— Ah, mother! prolific and full in all besides — yet how long barren, barren?) lo 

10 

Of These States, the poet is the equable man, 

Not in him, but off from him, things are grotesque, eccentric, fail of their full returns, 

Nothing out of its place is good, nothing in its place is bad. 

He bestows on every object or quality its fit proportion, neither more nor less. 

He is the arbiter of the diverse, he is the key, 

He is the equalizer of his age and land. 

He supplies what wants supplying — he checks what wants checking. 

In peace, out of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty, building populous 

towns, encouraging agriculture, arts, commerce, lighting the study of man, the 

Soul, health, immortality, government; 
In war, he is the best backer of the war — he fetches artillery as good as the engineer's 

— he can make every word he speaks draw blood; 
The years straying toward infidelity, he withholds by his steady faith, 20 

He is no arguer, he is judgment — (Nature accepts him absolutely;) 
He judges not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling round a helpless thing; 
As he sees the farthest, he has the most faith. 
His thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things. 
In the dispute on God and eternity he is silent. 
He sees eternity less like a play with a prologue and denouement. 
He sees eternity in men and women — he does not see men and women as dreams or 

dots. 
For the great Idea, the idea of perfect and free individuals, 
For that idea the bard walks in advance, leader of leaders, 
The attitude of him cheers up slaves and horrifies foreign despots. 3° 

Without extinction is Liberty ! without retrograde is Equality ! 
They live in the feelings of young men, and the best women; 

Not for nothing have the indomitable heads of the earth been always ready to fall 
for Liberty. 

11 

For the great Idea! 

That, O my brethren — that is the mission of Poets. 

Songs of stern defiance, ever ready. 
Songs of the rapid arming, and the march, 



498 AMERICAN POETRY 

The flag of peace quick- folded, and instead, the flag we know, 
Warlike flag of the great Idea. 

(Angry cloth I saw there leaping! 40 

I stand again in leaden rain, your flapping folds saluting; 

I sing you over all. flying, beckoning through the fight — O the hard-contested fight ! 

O the cannons ope their rosy-flashing muzzles I the hurtled halls scream! 

The battle-front forms amid the smoke — the volleys pour incessant from the line; 

Hark! the ringing word. Charge.'- — now the tussle, and the furious maddening yells; 

Now the corpses tumble curl'd upon the ground. 

Cold, cold in death, for precious life of you. 

Angry cloth I saw there leaping.) 

12 

Are you he who would assume a place to teach, or be a poet here in The States? 
The place is augiist — the terms obdurate. so 

Who would assume to teach here, may well prepare himself, body and mind. 

He may well survey, ponder, arm. fortify, harden, make lithe, himself. 

He shall surely be question'd beforehand by me with many and stern questions. 

Who are you. indeed, who would talk or sing to America? 

Have you studied out the land, its idioms and men? 

Have you learn'd the physiology, phrenology, politics, geography, pride, freedom, 

friendship, of the land? its substratums and objects? 
Have you consider'd the organic compact of the first day of the first year of Inde- 
pendence, sign'd by the Commissioners, ratified by The States, and read by 

\\'ashington at the head of the army? 
Have you possess'd yourself of the Federal Constitution? 
Do you see who have left all feudal processes and poems behind them, and assumed 

the poems and processes of Democracy? 
Are you faithful to things? do you teach as the land and sea, the bodies of men, 

womanhood, amativeness, angers, teach? 60 

Have you sped through fleeting customs, popularities? 
Can you hold your hand against all seductions, follies, whirls, fierce contentions? are 

you very strong? are you really of the whole people? 
Are you not of some coterie? some school or mere religion? 
Are you done with reviews and criticisms of life? animating now to life itself? 
Have 3'ou vivified yourself from the maternity of These States? 
Have you too the old. ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality? 
Do you hold the like love for those hardening to maturity; for the last-born? little 

and big? and for the errant? 

What is this you bring my America? 

Is it uniform with my country? 

Is it not something that has been better told or done before? 7° 

Have you not imported this, or the spirit of it. in some ship? 

Is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness? is the good old cause in it? 

Has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians, literats, of enemies' 

lands? 
Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here? 
Does it answer universal needs? will it improve manners? 
Does it soimd. with trumpet-voice, the proud victory of the Union, in that secession 

war? 
Can your performance face the open fields and the seaside? 
Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air — to appear again in my strength, gait, 

face? 
Have real employments contributed to it? original makers — not mere amanuenses? 
Does it meet modern discoveries, calibres, facts face to face? So 



I 



WALT WHITMAN 499 

What does it mean to me? to American persons, progresses, cities? Chicago, Kanada, 

Arkansas? the planter, Yankee, Georgian, native, immigrant, sailors, squatters, 

old States, new States? 
Does it encompass all The States, and the unexceptional rights of all the men and 

women of the earth? (the genital impulse of These States;) 
Does it see behind the apparent custodians, the real custodians, standing, menacing, 

silent — the mechanics, Manhattanese, western men, southerners, significant alike 

in their apathy, and in the promptness of their love? 
Does it see what finally befalls, and has always finally befallen, each temporizer, 

patcher, outsider, partialist, alarmist, infidel, who has ever ask'd anything of 

America? 
What mocking and scornful negligence? 
The track strew'd with the dust of skeletons; 
By the roadside others disdainfully toss'd. 

13 

Rhymes and rhymers pass away — poems distill'd from foreign poems pass away, 
The swarms of reflectors and the polite pass, and leave ashes; 

Admirers, importers, obedient persons, make but the soul of literature; 90 

America justifies itself, give it time — no disguise can deceive it, or conceal from it — 

it is impassive enough, 
Only toward the likes of itself will it advance to meet them. 
If its poets appear, it will in due time advance to meet them — there is no fear of 

mistake, 
(The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferr'd, till his country absorbs him as 

affectionately as he has absorb'd it.) 

He masters whose spirit masters — he tastes sweetest who results sweetest in the long 

run; 
The blood of the brawn beloved of time is unconstraint; 
In the need of poems, philosophy, politics, manners, engineering, an appropriate native 

grand-opera, shipcraft, any craft, he or she is greatest who contributes the 

greatest original practical example. 

Already a nonchalant breed, silently emerging, appears on the streets. 

People's lips salute only doers, lovers, satisfiers, positive knowers; 

There will shortly be no more priests — I say their work is done, ^°° 

Death is without emergencies here, but life is perpetual emergencies here, 

Are your body, days, manners, superb? after death you shall be suprrb; 

Justice, health, self-esteem, clear the way with irresistible power; 

How dare you place anything before a man? 

14 

Fall behind me, States ! 

A man before all — myself, typical before all. 

Give me the pay I have served for ! 

Give me to sing the song of the great Idea! take all the rest; 

I have loved the earth, sun, animals — I have despised riches, 

I have given alms to every one that ask'd, stood up for the stupid and crazy, devoted 

my income and labor to others, "o 

I have hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence toward 

the people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, 
I have gone freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with 

the mothers of families, 
I have read these leaves to myself in the open air — I have tried them by trees, stars, 

rivers, 
I have dismiss'd whatever insulted my own Soul or defiled my Body, 



500 AMERICAN POETRY 

I have claim'd nothing to myself which I have not carefully claim'd for others on 

the same terms, 
I have sped to the camps, and comrades found and accepted from every State; 
(In war of you, as well as peace, my suit is good, America — sadly I boast; 
Upon this breast has many a dying soldier lean'd, to breathe his last; 
This arm, this hand, this voice, have nourish'd, rais'd, restored, 

To life recalling many a prostrate form:) 120 

— I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of myself, 
I reject none, I permit all. 

(Say, O mother! have I not to your thought been faithful? 
Have I not, through life, kept you and yours before me?) 

22 

O my rapt verse, my call — mock me not ! 

Not for the bards of the past — not to invoke them have I launch'd you forth. 

Not to call even those lofty bards here by Ontario's shores, 

Have I sung so capricious and loud, my savage song. 

Bards for my own land, only, I invoke; 

(For the war, the war is over — the field is clear'd,) 130 

Till they strike up marches henceforth triumphant and onward, 

To cheer, O mother, your boundless, expectant soul. 

Bards grand as these days so grand ! 

Bards of the great Idea! Bards of the peaceful inventions! (for the war, the war 

is over !) 
Yet Bards of the latent armies — a million soldiers waiting, ever-ready, 
Bards towering like hills — (no more these dots, these pigmies, these little piping 

straws, these gnats, that fill the hour, to pass for poets;) 
Bards with songs as from burning coals, or the lightning's fork'd stripes ! 
Ample Ohio's bards — bards for California! inland bards — bards of the war;) 
(As a wheel turns on its axle, so I find my chants turning finally on the war;) 
Bards of pride ! Bards tallying the ocean's roar, and the swooping eagle's scream ! 140 
You, by my charm, I invoke! 

First published under title of "Poem of Many in One" in 1856. 



OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING 

1 

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking. 

Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, 

Out of the Ninth-month midnight. 

Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wan- 

der'd alone, bare-headed, barefoot, 
Down from the shower'd halo. 

Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, 
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, 
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, 

From your memories, sad brother — from the fitful risings and fallings I heard. 
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, ^° 

From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, 
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, 
From the myriad thence-arous'd words, 
From the word stronger and more delicious than any, . 
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, 



WALT WHITMAN 501 

As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, 

Borne hither — ere all eludes me, hurriedly, 

A man — yet by these tears a little boy again, 

Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,i 

I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, 20 

Taking all hints to use them — but swiftly leaping beyond them, 

A reminiscence sing. 

2 
Once, Paumanok, 
When the snows had melted — when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month 

grass was growing, 
Up this sea-shore, in some briers, 
Two guests from Alabama — two together, 

And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown, 
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, 

And every day the she-bird, crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, 
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, 3° 

Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. 

3 

Shine! shine! shine! 

Pour down your warmth, great Sun! 

While we bask — we two together. 

Two together! 

Winds blow South, or winds blow North, 

Day come white, or night come black, 

Home, or rivers and mountains from home. 

Singing all time, minding no time. 

While we two keep together. 4° 

4 
Till of a sudden. 

May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate, 
One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, 
Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next. 
Nor ever appear'd again. 

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea. 

And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather. 

Over the hoarse surging of the sea. 

Or flitting from brier to brier by day, 

I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird, 50 

The solitary guest from Alabama. 

S 

Blow! blow! blow! 

Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok's shore! 

I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me. 

6 

Yes, when the stars glisten'd. 

All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, 

Down, almost amid the slapping waves, 

Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. 

* Whitman, in analysis of himself, wrote "he . . . constructs his verse in a loose and free 
metre of his own, of an irregular length of lines, apparently lawless at first perusal, although on 
closer examination a certain regularity appears, like the recurrence of lesser and larger waves on 
the sea-shore, rolling in without intermission, and fitfully rising and falling." See footnote on 
"There was a Child," page 473. 



502 AMERICAN POETRY 

He call'd on his mate; 

He pour'd forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. 60 

Yes, my brother, I know ; 

The rest might not — but I have treasur'd every note; 

For once, and more than once, dimly, ~ down to the beach gliding, 

Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, 

Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their 

sorts. 
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, 
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, 
Listen'd long and long. 

Listen'd, to keep, to sing — now translating the notes, 

Following you, my brother. 7° 

7 

Soothe! soothe! soothe! 

Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, 

And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close. 

But my love soothes not me, not me. 

Low hangs the moon — it rose late; 

O it is lagging — O I think it is heavy with love, with love. 

O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, 
With love — with love. 

O night! do' I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers? 

What is that little black thing I see 'there in the white? 80 

Loud! loud! loud! 

Loud I call to you, my love! 

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves; 

Surely you must know who is here, is here; 

You must know who I am, my love. 

Low-hanging moon! 

What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? 

O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! 

rnoon, do not keep her from me any longer. 

Land! land! O land! _ _ . . ^ 

Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you 

only would; 
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. 

O rising stars! 

Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, zvill rise with some of you. 

O throat! O trembling throat! 

Sound clearer through the atmosphere! 

Pierce the woods, the earth; 

Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want. 

Shake out, carols! 

Solitary here — the night's carols! ^°° 



WALT WHITMAN 503 

Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols! 

Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! 

O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea! 

O reckless, despairing carols. 

But soft! sink low; 

Soft! let me just murmur; 

And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea; 

For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, 

So faint — / must be still, be still to listen; 

But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. iio 

Hither, my love! . • 

Here I am! Here! 

With this just-sustain' d note I announce myself to you; 

This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. 

Do not be decoy' d elsewhere! 

That is the whistle of the wind — it is not my voice; 
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; 
Those are the shadows of leaves. 

O darkness! O in vaiii! 

O I am very sick and sorrowful. 120 

O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea! 

O troubled reflection in the sea! 

O throat! O throbbing heart! 

Q all — and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. 

Yet I murmur, murmur on! 

O murmurs — you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why. 

O past! O life! O songs of joy! 

In the air — in the woods — over fields; 

Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! 

But my love no more, no more with me! 130 

We two together no more. 



The aria sinking; 

All else continuing — the stars shining, 

The winds blowing — the notes of the bird continuous echoing, 

With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, 

On the sands of Paumanok's shore, gray and rustling; 

The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost 
touching ; 

The boy extatic — with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dal- 
lying, 

The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting. 

The aria's meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing, 14° 

The strange tears down the cheeks coursing. 

The colloquy there — the trio — each uttering, 

The undertone — the savage old mother, incessantly crying. 

To the boy's Soul's questions sullenly timing — some drown'd secret hissing. 

To the QUtsetting bard of love. 



504 AMERICAN POETRY 



Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,) 

Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? 
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping. 
Now I have heard you, 

Now in a moment I know what I am for — I awake, iso 

And already a thousand singers — a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sor- 
rowful than yours, 
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, 
Never to die. 

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself — projecting me; 

O solitary me, listening — nevermore, shall I cease perpetuating you; 

Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, 

Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me. 

Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the 

night, 
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon. 

The messenger there arous'd — the fire, the sweet hell within, 160 

The unknown want, the destiny of me. 

O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;) 

O if I am to have so much, let me have more! 

O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;) 

O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from 

graves around me! 
O phantoms ! you cover all the land and all the sea ! 
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me; 
O vapor, a look, a word ! O well-beloved ! 
O you dear women's and men's phantoms ! 

A word then, (for I will conquer it,) J7o 

The word final, superior to all. 
Subtle, sent up — what is it? — I listen; 

Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves? 
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? 

10 

Whereto answering, the sea, 

Delaying not, hurrying not, 

Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, 

Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word Death ; 

And again Death — ever Death, Death, Death, 

Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous'd child's heart, 180 

But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet. 

Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over, 

Death, Death, Death, Death, Death. 

Which I do not forget. 

But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, 
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach. 
With the thousand responsive songs, at random. 
My own songs, awaked from that hour; 
And with them the key, the word up from the waves. 

The word of the sweetest song, and all songs, ^9° 

That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, 
The sea whisper'd me. 

Under title of "A Child's Reminiscence," New York Saturday Press, Dec. 24, 1859. 



WALT WHITMAN 505 

STARTING FROM PAUMANOK 

1 

Starting from fish-shape Paumanok, where I was born, 
Well-begotten, and rais'd by a perfect mother; 
After roaming many lands — lover of populous pavements; 
Dweller in Mannahatta, my city — or on southern savannas ; 

Or a soldier camp'd, or carrying my knapsack and gun — or a miner in California; 
Or rude in my home in Dakota's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring; 
Or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess, 
Far from the clank of crowds, intervals passing, rapt and happy; 
Aware of the fresh free giver, the flowing Missouri — aware of mighty Niagara; 
Aware of the buffalo herds, grazing the plains — the hirsute and strong-breasted 
bull ; 10 

Of earth, rocks, Fifth-month flowers, experienced — stars, rain, snow, my amaze; 
Having studied the mocking-bird's tones, and the mountain-hawk's. 
And heard at dusk the unrival'd one, the hermit thrush from the swamp-cedars, 
Solitary, singing in the West, I strike up for a New World. 

2 

Victory, union, faith, identity, time. 

The indissoluble compacts, riches, mystery. 

Eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports. 

This, then, is life; 

Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions. 

How curious ! how real ! 20 

Underfoot the divine soil — overhead the sun. 

See, revolving, the globe; 

The ancestor-continents, away, group'd together; 

The present and future continents, north and south, with the isthmus between. 

See, vast, trackless spaces ; 

As in a dream, they change, they swiftly fill; 

Countless masses debouch upon them; 

They are now cover'd with the foremost people, arts, institutions, known 

See, projected, through time, 

For me, an audience interminable. 30 

With firm and regular step they wend — they never stop, 

Successions of men, Americanos, a hundred milHons; 

One generation playing its part, and passing on; 

Another generation playing its part, and passing on in its turn. 

With faces turn'd sideways or backward towards me, to listen, 

With eyes retrospective towards me, 



Americanos ! conouerors ! marches humanitarian ; 
Foremost ! century marches ! Libertad ! masses ! 
For you a programme of chants. 

Chants of the prairies; 4° 

Chants of the long-running Mississippi, and down to the Mexican sea; 
Chants of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota; 



506 AMERICAN POETRY 

Chants going forth from the centre, from Kansas, and thence, equi-distant, 
Shooting in pulses of fire, ceaseless, to vivify all. 

4 
In the Year 80 of The States, . < . . 

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, 
Born here of parents born here, from parents the same, and their parents the same, 
I, now thirty-six years old, in perfect health, begin. 
Hoping to cease not till death. 

Creeds and schools in abeyance, 

(Retiring back a while, sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,) 
I harbor, for good or bad — I permit to speak, at every hazard, 
Nature now without check, with original energy. 



Take my leaves, America ! take them. South, and take them. North ! 
Make welcome for them everywhere, for they are your own offspring; 
Surround them. East and West ! for they would surround you ; 
And you precedents ! connect lovingly with them, for they connect lovingly with 
you. 

I conn'd old times; 

I sat studying at the feet of the great masters : 

Now, if eligible, O that the great masters might return and study me! 6o 

In the name of These States, shall I scorn the antique? 
Why These are the children of the antique, to justify it. 

6 

Dead poets, philosophs, priests, 

Martyrs, artists, inventors, governments long since, 
Language-shapers, on other shores,* 

Nations once powerful, now reduced, withdrawn, or desolate, 
I dare now proceed till I respectfully credit what you have left, wafted hither: 
I have perused it — own it is admirable, (moving awhile among it;) 
Think nothing can ever be greater — nothing can ever deserve more than it de- 
serves; 
Regarding it all intently a long while — then dismissing it, 7° 

I stand in my place, with my own day, here. 

Here lands female and male; 

Here the heir-ship and heiress-ship of the world — here the flame of materials; 

Here Spirituality, the translatress, the openly-avow'd. 

The ever-tending, the finale of visible forms; 

The satisfier, after due long-waiting, now advancing. 

Yes, here comes my mistress, the Soul. 

7 
The Soul : 

Forever and forever — longer than soil is brown and solid — longer than water ebbs 
and flows. 

I will make the poems of materials, for I think they are to be the most spiritual 
poems ; 8o 

And I will make the poems of my body and of mortality. 

For I think I shall then supply myself with the poems of my Soul, and of im- 
mortality. 



WALT WHITMAN 507 

I will make a song for These States, that no one State may under any circum- 
stances be subjected to another State; 

And I will make a song that there shall be comity by day and by night between 
all The States, and between any two of them : 

And I will make a soitig for the ears of the President, full of weapons with men- 
acing points. 

And behind the weapons countless dissatisfied faces : 

— And a song make I, of the One form'd out of all; 

The fang'd and ghttering One whose head is over all; 

Resolute, warlike One, including and over all; 

(However high the head of any else, that head is over all.) 9° 

I will acknowledge contemporary lands ; 

I will trail the whole geography of the globe, and salute courteously every city 

large and small; 
And employments ! I will put in my poems, that with you is heroism, upon land 

and sea; 
And I will report all heroism from an American point of view. 

I will sing the song of companionship; 

I will show what alone must finally compact These; 

I believe These are to found their own ideal of manly love, indicating it in me; 

I will therefore let flame from me the burning fires that were threatening to 

consume me; 
I will lift what has too long kept down those smouldering fires; 
I will give them complete abandonment; loo 

I will write the evangel-poem of comrades, and of love; 
(For who but I should understand love, with all its sorrow and joy? 
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?) 

8 

I am the credulous man of qualities, ages, races; 
I advance from the people in their own spirit; 
Here is what sings unrestricted faith. 

Omnes ! Omnes ! let others ignore what they may ; 

I make the poem of evil also— I commemorate that part also; 

I am myself just as much evil as good, and my nation is — And I say there is in 

fact no evil; 
(Or if there is, I say it is just as important to you, to the land, or to me, as 

anything else.) no 

I too, following many, and follow'd by many, inaugurate a Religion — I descend into 

the arena ; 
(It may be I am destin'd to utter the loudest cries there, the winner's pealing 

shouts ; 
Who knows? they may rise from me yet, and soar above every thing.) 

Each is not for its own sake; 

I say the whole earth, and all the stars in the sky, are for Religion's sake. 

I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough; 

None has ever yet adored or worship'd half enough; 

None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the future is. 

I say that the real and permanent grandeur of These States must be their Re- 
ligion ; 
Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur : 120 

(Nor character, nor life worthy the name, without Religion; 
Nor land, nor man or woman, without Religion.) 



508 AMERICAN POETRY 

9 

What are you doing, young man? 

Are you so earnest — so given up to literature, science, art, amours? 

These ostensible realities, politics, points? 

Your ambition or business, whatever it may be? 

It is well — Against such I say not a word — I am their poet also; 

But behold! such swiftly subside — burnt up for Religion's sake; 

For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential life of the earth. 

Any more than such are to Religion. 130 

10 

What do you seek, so pensive and silent? 
What do you need, Camerado? 
Dear son ! do you think it is love ? 

Listen, dear son — listen, America, daughter or son ! 

It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess — and yet it satisfies — it 

is great; 
But there is something else very great — it makes the whole coincide; 
It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands, sweeps and provides for all. 

11 

Know you ! solely to drop in the earth the germs of a greater Religion, 
The following chants, each for its kind, I sing. 

My comrade ! _ 140 

For you, to share with me, two greatnesses — and a third one, rising inclusive and 

more resplendent. 

The greatness of Love and Democracy — and the greatness of Religion. 

Melange mine own ! the unseen and the seen ; 

Mysterious ocean where the streams empty; 

Prophetic spirit of materials shifting and flickering around me; 

Living beings, identities, now doubtless near us, in the air, that we know not of; 

Contact daily and hourly that will not release me; 

These selecting — these, in hints, demanded of me. 

Not he, with a daily kiss, onward from childhood kissing me, 

Has winded and twisted around me that which holds me to him, 150 

Any more than I am held to the heavens, to the spiritual world, 

And to the identities of the Gods, my lovers, faithful and true, 

After what they have done to me, suggesting themes. 

O such themes ! Equalities ! 

O amazement of things! O divine average! 

O warblings under the sun — usher'd, as now, or at noon, or setting! 

strain, musical, flowing through ages — now reaching hither ! 

1 take to your reckless and composite chords — I add to them, and cheerfully pass 

them forward. 

12 

As I have walk'd in Alabama my morning walk, 

I have seen where the she-bird, the mocking-bird, sat on her nest in the briers, 
hatching her brood. 160 

I have seen the he-bird also; 

I have paused to hear him, near at hand, inflating his throat, and joyfully singing. 



WALT WHITMAN 509 

And while I paused, it came to me that what he really sang for was not there only, 

Nor for his mate, nor himself only, nor all sent back by the echoes; 

But subtle, clandestine, away beyond, 

A charge transmitted, and gift occult, for those being born. 

13 

Democracy ! 

Near at hand to you a throat is now inflating itself and joyfully singing. 

Ma f emme ! 

For the brood beyond us and of us, 170 

For those who belong here, and those to come, 

I, exultant, to be ready for them, will now shake out carols stronger and haughtier 

than have ever yet been heard upon earth. 
I will make the songs of passion, to give them their way, 
And your songs, outlaw'd offenders — for I scan you with kindred eyes, and carry 

you with me the same as any. 

I will make the true poem of riches. 

To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres, and goes forward, and is 
not dropt by death. 

I will effuse egotism, and show it underlying all — and I will be the bard of per- 
sonality ; 

And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the other, 

And sexual organs and acts ! do you concentrate in me — for I am determin'd to 
tell you with courageous clear voice, to prove you illustrious; 

And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present — and can be none in 
the future ; 180 

And I will show that whatever happens to anybody, it may be turn'd to beautiful 
results — and I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death; 

And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are compact, 

And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as 
any. 

I will not make poems with reference to parts; 

But I will make leaves, poems, poemets, songs, says, thoughts, with reference to 

ensemble : 
And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with reference to all days; 
And I will not make a poem, not the least part of a poem, but has reference to 

the Soul; 
(Because, having look'd at the objects of the universe, I find there is no one, nor 

any particle of one, but has reference to the Soul.) 

14 

Was somebody asking to see the Soul? 

See ! your _ own shape and countenance — persons, substances, beasts, the trees, the 
running rivers, the rocks and sands. 190 

All hold spiritual joys, and afterwards loosen them : 
How can the real body ever die, and be buried? 

Of your real body, and any man's or woman's real body. 

Item for item, it will elude the hands of the corpse-cleaners, and pass to fitting 

spheres. 
Carrying what has accrued to it from the moment of birth to the moment of 

death. 



510 AMERICAN POETRY 

Not the types set up by the printer return their impression, the meaning, the main 

concern. 
Any more than a man's substance and life, or a woman's substance and life, 

return in the body and the Soul, 
Indifferently before death and after death. 

Behold ! the body includes and is the meaning, the main concern — and includes and 

is the Soul; 
Whoever you are ! how superb and how divine is your body, or any part of it. 200 

15 
Whoever you are ! to you endless announcements. 

Daughter of the lands, did you wait for your poet? 

Did you wait for one with a flowing mouth and indicative hand? 

Toward the male of The States, and toward the female of The States, 
Live words — words to the lands. 

O the lands ! interlink'd, food-yielding lands ! 

Land of coal and iron! Land of gold! Lands of cotton, sugar, rice! 

Land of wheat, beef, pork! Land of wool and hemp! Land of the apple and 
grape ! 

Land of the pastoral plains, the grass-fields of the world ! Land of those sweet- 
air'd interminable plateaus ! 

Land of the herd, the garden, the healthy house of adobie ! 210 

Lands where the northwest Columbia winds, and where the southwest Colorado 
winds ! 

Land of the eastern Chesapeake! Land of the Delaware! 

Land of Ontario, Erie, Huron, Michigan! 

Land of the Old Thirteen ! Massachusetts land ! Land of Vermont and Connec- 
ticut ! 

Land of the ocean shores ! Land of sierras and peaks ! 

Land of boatmen and sailors! Fishermen's land! 

Liextricable lands ! the clutched together ! the passionate ones ! 

The side by side ! the elder and younger brothers ! the bony-limb'd ! 

The great women's land ! the feminine ! the experienced sisters and the inexperi- 
enced sisters ! 

Far breath'd land ! Arctic braced ! Mexican breez'd ! the diverse ! the compact ! 220 

The Pennsylvanian ! the Virginian ! the double Carolinian ! 

all and each well-loved by me ! my intrepid nations ! O I at any rate include 

you all with perfect love ! 

1 cannot be discharged from you ! not from one, any sooner than another ! 

O Death ! O for all that, I am yet of you, unseen, this hour, with irrepressible love, 

Walking New England, a friend, a traveler. 

Splashing my bare feet in the edge of the summer ripples, on Paumanok's sands. 

Crossing the prairies — dwelling again in Chicago — dwelling in every town, 

Observing shows, births, improvements, structures, arts. 

Listening to the orators and the oratresses in public halls. 

Of and through The States, as during life — each man and woman my neighbor, 230 

The Louisianian, the Georgian, as near to me, and I as near to him and her. 

The Mississippian and Arkansian yet with me — and I yet with any of them; 

Yet upon the plains west of the spinal river — yet in my house of adobie. 

Yet returning eastward — yet in the Sea-Side State, or in Maryland, 

Yet Kanadian, cheerily braving the winter — the snow and ice welcome to me, 

Yet a true son either of Maine, or of the Granite State, or of the Narragansett Bay 

State, or of the Empire State; 
Yet sailing to other shores to annex the same — yet welcoming every new brother; 



WALT WHITMAN 511 

Hereby applying these leaves to the new ones, from the hour they unite with the 

old ones; 
Coming among the new ones myself, to be their companion and equal — coming 

personally to you now ; 
Enjoining you to acts, characters, spectacles, with me. 240 

16 
With me, with firm holding — yet haste, haste on. 

For your life, adhere to me ! 

Of all the men of the earth, I only can unloose you and toughen you; 

I may have to be persuaded many times before I consent to give myself really to you — 

but what of that? 
Must not Nature be persuaded many times? 

No dainty dolce affettuoso I ; 

Bearded, sun-burnt, gray-neck'd, forbidding, I have arriv"ed, 

To be wrestled with as I pass, for the solid prizes of the universe; 

For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them. 

17 

On my way a moment I pause; 250 

Here for you! and here for America! 

Still the Present I raise aloft — Still the Future of The States I harbinge, glad and 

sublime ; 
And for the Past, I pronounce what the air holds of the red aborigines. 

The red aborigines ! 

Leaving natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds and animals in 

the woods, syllabled to us for names ; 
Okonee, Koosa, Ottawa, Monongahela, Sauk, Natchez, Chattahoochee, Kaqueta, 

Oronoco, 
Wabash, Miami, Saginaw, Chippewa, Oshkosh, Walla- Walla; 
Leaving such to The States, they melt, they depart, charging the water and the land 

with names. 

18 

O expanding and swift! O henceforth, 260 

Elements, breeds, adjustments, turbulent, quick and audacious; 

A world primal again — Vistas of glory, incessant and branching; 

A new race, dominating previous ones, and grander far — with new contests. 

New politics, new literatures and religions, new inventions and arts. 

These ! my voice announcing — I will sleep no more, but arise ; 

You oceans that have been calm within me ! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, 
preparing unprecedented waves and storms. 

19 

See ! steamers steaming through my poems ! 

See, in my poems immigrants continually coming and landing; 

See, in arriere, the wigwam, the trail, the hunter's hut, the flatboat, the maize-leaf, 

the claim, the rude fence, and the backwoods village; 
See, on the one side the Western Sea, and on the other the Eastern Sea, how they 

advance and retreat upon my poems, as upon their own shores. 270 

See, pastures and forests in my poems — See, animals, wild and tame — See, beyond 
the Kanzas, countless herds of buffalo, feeding on short curly grass; 

See, in my poems, cities, solid, vast, inland, with paved streets, with iron and stone 
edifices, ceaseless vehicles, and commerce ; . . . , 



512 AMERICAN POETRY 

See, the many-cylinder'd steam printing-press — See, the electric telegraph, stretching 

across the Continent, from the Western Sea to Manhattan ; 
See, through Atlantica's depths, pulses American, Europe reaching — pulses of Europe, 

duly return'd; 
See, the strong and quick locomotive, as it departs, panting, blowing the steam-whistle; 
See, ploughmen, ploughing farms — See, miners, digging mines — See, the numberless 

factories; 
See, mechanics, busy at their benches, with tools — See from among them, superior 

judges, philosophers. Presidents, emerge, drest in working dresses; 
See, lounging through the shops and fields of The States, me, well-belov'd, close-held 

by day and night ; 
Hear the loud echoes of my songs there! Read the hints come at last. 

20 

O Camerado close ! 280 

O you and me at last — and us two only. 

O a word to clear one's path ahead endlessly ! 

O something extatic and undemonstrable ! O music wild ! 

O now I triumph — and you shall also; 

O hand in hand — O wholesome pleasure — O one more desirer and lover! 

O to haste, firm holding — to haste, haste on with me. 

First published in 1860 under title of "Proto-Leaf." 



A SONG 

1 

Come, I will make the continent indissoluble; 

I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet shone upon; 

I will make divine magnetic lands. 

With the love of comrades. 
With the life-long love of comrades 



I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America, and along 

the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies ; 
I will make inseparable cities, with their arms about each otjier's necks; 
By the love of comrades. 
By the manly love of comrades. 



For you these, from me, O Democracy, to serve you, ma femme! " 

For you ! for you, I am thrilling these songs. 
In the love of comrades. 
In the high-towering love of comrades. 

1860 

I SAW IN LOUISIANA A LIVE-OAK GROWING 

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing, 

All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches ; 
Without any companion it grew there, uttering joyous leaves of dark green, 
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself ; 

But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves, standing alone there, without its 
friend, its lover near — for I knew I could not; 



WALT WHITMAN 513 

And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined around 

it a little moss, 
And brought it away — and I have placed it in sight in my room; 
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends, 
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them;) 

Yet it remains to me a curious token — it makes me think of manly love; lo 

For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana, solitary, in a wide 

flat space. 
Uttering joyous leaves all its Hfe, without a friend, a lover, near, 
I know very well I could not. 

1860 

I HEAR IT WAS CHARGED AGAINST ME 

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions; 

But really I am neither for nor against institutions; 

(What indeed have I in common with them? — Or what with the destruction of them?) 

Only I will establish in the Mannahatta, and in every city of These States, inland and 

seaboard, 
And in the fields and woods, and above every keel, little or large, that dents the water, 
Without edifices, or rules, or trustees, or any argument, 
The institution of the dear love of comrades. 

1860 

ME IMPERTURBE 

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature, 

Master of all, or mistress of all — aplomb in the midst of irrational things. 

Imbued as they — passive, receptive, silent as they. 

Finding my occupation, poverty, notoriety, foibles, crimes, less important than I 

thought ; 
Me private, or public, or menial, or solitary — all these subordinate, (I am eternally 

equal with the best — I am not subordinate;) 
Me toward the Mexican Sea, or in the Mannahatta, or the Tennessee, or far north, 

or inland, 
A river man, or a man of the woods, or of any farm-life in These States, or of the 

coast, or the lakes, or Kanada, 
Me, wherever my life is lived, O to be self-balanced for contingencies! 

to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as the trees and 

animals do. 

1860 

I HEAR AMERICA SINGING 

1 hear America singing, the varied carols I hear; 

Those of mechanics — each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong; 

The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam. 

The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work; 

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat — the deckhand singing on the 

steamboat deck; 
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench — the hatter singing as he stands; 
The wood-cutter's song — the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon 

intermission, or at sundown; 
The delicious singing of the mother — or of the young wife at work — or of the girl 

sewing or washing — Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; 
The day what belongs to the day — At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly. 
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs. '° 

First published in 1860 where line 1 reads "American Mouth-Songs." 



514 AMERICAN POETRY 

WITH ANTECEDENTS 

1 

With antecedents; 

W'ith my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages; 

With all which, had it not been, I would not now be here, as I am: 

With Egypt, India, Phenicia, Greece and Rome ; 

With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb, and the Saxon ; 

With antique maritime ventures, — with laws, artizanship, wars and journeys; 

With the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle; 

With the sale of slaves — with enthusiasts — with the troubadour, the crusader, and the 

monk ; 
With those old continents whence we have come to this new continent; 
With the fading kingdoms and kings over there; 
With the fading religions and priests ; 

With the small shores we look back to from our own large and present shores; 
With countless years drawing themselves onward, and arrived at these years; 
You and Me arrived — America arrived, and making this year; 
This year! sending itself ahead countless years to' come. 



but it is not the years — it is I — it is You ; 
We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents ; 

We are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight — we easily include them, and 

more; 
We stand amid time, beginningless and endless — we stand amid evil and good; 
All swings around us — there is as much darkness as light; 20 

The very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us; 
Its sun, and its again, all swing around us. 
As for me, (torn, stormy, even as I, amid these vehement days,) 

1 have the idea of all, and am all, and believe in all; 

1 believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is true — I reject no part. 

Have I forgotten any part? 

Come to me, whoever and whatever, till I give you recognition. 

I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews; 

I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god; 

I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without exception; 3° 

I assert that all past days were what they should have been; 

And that they could no-how have been better than they were, 

And that to-day is what it should be — and that America is. 

And that to-day and America could no-how be better than they are. 



In the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Past, 

And in the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Present time. 

I know that the past was great, and the future will be great, 

And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present time, 

(For the sake of him I typify — for the common average man's sake — your sake, if you 

are he;) 
And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there is the centre of all days, 

all races, 4° 

And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come of races and days, or ever 

will come. 

1860 



I 



WALT WHITMAN 515 

MYSELF AND MINE 

Myself and mine gymnastic ever, 

To stand the cold or heat — to take good aim with a gun — to sail a boat — to manage 

horses — to beget superb children, 
To speak readily and clearly — to feel at home among common people, 
And to hold our own in terrible positions, on land and sea. 

Not for an embroiderer; 

(There will always be plenty of embroiderers — I welcome them also;) 

But for the fibre of things, and for inherent men and women. 

Not to chisel ornaments. 

But to chisel with free stroke the heads and limbs of plenteous Supreme Gods, that 
The States may realize them, walking and talking. 

Let me have my own way; i° 

Let others promulge the laws — I will make no account of the laws; 
Let others praise eminent men and hold up peace — I hold up agitation and conflict; 
I praise no eminent man — I rebuke to his face the one that was thought most worthy. 

(Who are you? you mean devil! And what are you secretly guilty of, all your life? 
Will you turn aside all your life? Will you grub and chatter all your life?) 

(And who are you — blabbing by rote, years, pages, languages, reminiscences, 
Unwitting to-day that you do not know how to speak a single word?) 

Let others finish specimens — I never finish specimens ; 

I shower them by exhaustless laws, as Nature does, fresh and modern continually. 

I give nothing as duties; _ _ «>. 

What others give as duties, I give as living impulses; 
(Shall I give the heart's action as a duty?) 

Let others dispose of questions — I dispose of nothing — I arouse unanswerable 

questions ; 
Who are they I see and touch, and what about them? 
What about these likes of myself, that draw me so close by tender directions and 

indirections? 
I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies — 

as I myself do; 
I charge you, too, forever, reject those who would expound me — for I cannot expound 

myself; 
I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me; 
I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free. 

After me, vista! 30 

O, I see life is not short, but immeasurably long; 

I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower, 
Every hour the semen of centuries — and still of centuries. 

I will follow up these continual lessons of the air, water, earth; 
I perceive I have no time to lose. 

186Q 



516 AMERICAN POETRY 

DRUM-TAPS 
Aroused and angry, 

I thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war; 
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd, and I resigned myself, 
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead. ^ 

DRUM-TAPS 

1 

First, O songs, for a prelude, 

Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum, pride and joy in my city, 

How she led the rest to arms — how she gave the cue, 

How at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang; 

(O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! 

O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!) 

How you sprang ! how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand ; 

How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead; 

How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of soldiers,) 

How Manhattan drum-taps led. " 



Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading; 

Forty years as a pageant — till unawares, the Lady of this teeming and turbulent city, 

Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, 

With her million children around her — suddenly, 

At dead of night, at news from the south, 

Incens'd, struck with clench'd hand the pavement. 

A shock electric — the night sustain'd it; 

Till with ominous hum, our hive at day-break pour'd out its myriads. 

From the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways. 

Leapt they tumultuous — and lo! Manhattan arming. 20 

3 

To the drum-taps prompt, 

The young men falling in and arming; 

The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's hammer, tost 

aside with precipitation;) 
The lawyer leaving his office, and arming — the judge leaving the court; 
The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly 

down on the horses' backs ; 
The salesman leaving the store — the boss, the book-keeper, porter, all leaving; 
Squads gather everywhere by common consent, and arm ; 
The new recruits, even boys — the old men show them how to wear their accoutrements 

— they buckle the straps carefully; 
Outdoors arming — indoors arming — the flash of the musket-barrels; 
The white tents cluster in camps — the arm'd sentries around — the sunrise cannon, and 

again at sunset ; 3° 

Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from the wharves ; 
(How good they look, as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on 

their shoulders ! 
How I love them ! how I could hug them, with their brown faces, and their clothes 

and knapsacks cover'd with dust!) 

1 Whitman began his hospital service in December 1862, when his brother George was wounded 
at Fredericksburg. "Friends in New York and elsewhere supplied him with money for the work. 
Before the war closed he had made about six hundred hospital visits; cared, to a greater or less 
extent, for nearly one hundred thousand unfortunates; and expended many thousand dollars," 
— G. R. Carpenter's "Whitman," page 91, 



WALT WHITMAN 517 

The blood of the city up — arm'd! arin'd ! the cry everywhere; 

The flags flung out from the steeples of churches, and from all the public buildings 

and stores; 
The tearful parting — the mother kisses her son — the son kisses his mother; 
(Loth is the mother to part — yet not a word does she speak to detain him;) 
The tumultuous escort — the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way; 
The unpent enthusiasm — the wild cheers of the crowd for their favorites; 
The artillery — the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble ligh over 

the stones; 40 

(Silent cannons — soon to cease your silence! 
Soon, unlimber'd, to begin the red business;) 
All the mutter of preparation — all the determin'd arming; 
The hospital service — the lint, bandages, and medicines ; 
The women volunteering for nurses — the work begun for, in earnest — no mere 

parade now ; 
War! an arm'd race is advancing! — the welcome for battle — no turning away; 
War ! be it weeks, months, or years — an arm'd race is advancing to welcome it. 



Mannahatta a-march ! — and it's O to sing it well ! 

It's O for a manly life in the camp ! 

And the sturdy artillery ! so 

The guns, bright as gold — the work for giants — to serve well the guns : 

Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for salutes for courtesies merely; 

Put in something else now besides powder and wadding. 



And you. Lady of Ships! you Mannahatta! 

Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city ! 

Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frown'd amid all your 

children ; 
But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta! 

1865 



BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! 

1 

Beat! beat! drums! — Blow! bugles! blow! 

Through the windows — through doors — burst like a ruthless force, 

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation; 

Into the school where the scholar is studying; 

Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness must he have now with his bride; 

Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain; 

So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums — so shrill you bugles blow. 



Beat! beat! drums! — Blow! bugles! blow! 

Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels in the streets : 
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in 
those beds ; 10 

No bargainers' bargains by day — no brokers or speculators — Would they continue? 
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? 
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? 
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder blow. 



518 AMERICAN POETRY 



Beat! beat! drums! — Blow! bugles! blow! 

Make no parley — stop for no expostulation; 

Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or prayer; 

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man; 

Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties; 

Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses, 20 

So strong you thump, O terrible drums — so loud you bugles blow. 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 

THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY i 

Volunteer of 1861-2. 

(At Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian.) 

Give me your hand, old Revolutionary; 

The hill-top is nigh — but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;) 

Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite qf your hundred and extra years; 

You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done; 

Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me. 

Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means; 

On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising; 

There is the camp — one regiment departs to-morrow; 

Do you hear the officers giving the orders? 

Do you hear the clank of the muskets? «> 

Why, what comes over you now, old man? 

Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively? 

The troops are but drilling — they are yet surrounded with smiles; 

Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women; 

While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down ; 

Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze, 

O'er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between. 

But drill and parade are over — they march back to quarters; 

Only hear that approval of hands ! hear what a clapping ! 

As wending, the crowds now part and disperse — but we, old man, 20 

Not for nothing have I brought you hither — we must remain; 
You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. 

The Centenarian 

When I clutch'd your hand, it was not with terror; 

But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side. 

And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran, 

And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see, south and south-east and 

south-west. 
Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods. 

And along the shores, in mire (now fill'd over), came again, and suddenly raged. 
As eighty-five years agone, no mere parade receiv'd with applause of friends. 
But a battle, which I took part in myself — aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it, 3° 
Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. 

Aye, this is the ground; 

My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves; 
* Story of the Battle of Long Island, Aug. 27, 1776, 



WALT WHITMAN 519 

The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear; 
Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are mounted; 
I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to bay; 
I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes : 
Here we lay encamp' d — it was this time in summer also. 

As I talk, I remember all — I remember the Declaration; 

It was read here — the whole army paraded — it was read to us here; 4° 

By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the middle — he held up his unsheath'd 

sword. 
It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army. 

'Twas a bold act then; 

The English war-ships had just arrived — the king had sent them from over the sea; 

We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, 

And the transports, swarming with soldiers. 

A few days more, and they landed — and then the battle. 

Twenty thousand were brought against us, 
A veteran force, furnish'd with good artillery. 

I tell not now the whole of the battle; 5° 

But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order'd forward to engage the red-coats; 
Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd, 
And how long and how well it stood, confronting death. 

Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death? 
It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, 

Rais'd in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the 
General. 

Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus waters ; 

Till of a sudden, unlook'd for, by defiles through the woods, gain'd at night. 

The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns, 

That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy's mercy. 6° 

The General watch'd them from this hill; 

They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment; 
Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle; 
But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! 

It sickens me yet, that slaughter! 

I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General; 

I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. 

Meanwhile the British manoeuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle; 
But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle. 

We fought the fight in detachments ; 7° 

Sallying forth, we fought at several points — but in each the luck was against us ; 
Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back to the works on 

this hill; 
Till we turn'd, menacing, here, and then he left us. 

That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong; 
Few return' d — nearly all remain in Brooklyn. 



520 AMERICAN POETRY 

That, and here, my General's first battle; 

No women looking on, nor sunshine to bask in — it did not conclude with applause; 

Nobody clapp'd hands here then. 

But in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill rain, 

Wearied that night we lay, foil'd and sullen ; &> 

While scornfully laugh'd many an arrogant lord, off against us encamp'd, 
Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wine-glasses together over their victory. 

So, dull and damp, and another day; 

But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, 

Silent as a ghost, while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated. 

I saw him at the river-side, 

Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; 

My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass'd over; 

And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time. 

Every one seem'd fill'd with gloom; 90 

Many no doubt thought of capitulation. 

But when my General pass'd me, 

As he stood in his boat, and look'd toward the coming sun, 

I saw something different from capitulation. 

Terminus 

Enough — the Centenarian's story ends ; 

The two, the past and present, have interchanged; 

I myself, as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking. 

And is this the ground Washington trod? 

And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross'd, 

As resolute in defeat, as other generals in their proudest triumphs? 100 

It is well — a lesson like that, always comes good; 

I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward; 

I must preserve that look, as it beam'd on you, rivers of Brooklyn. 

See ! as the annual round returns, the phantoms return ; 
It is the 27th of August, and the British have landed; 
The battle begins, and goes against us — behold! through the smoke, Washington's 

face ; 
The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to intercept the enemy; 
They are cut off — murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them; 
Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, 

Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds, no 

In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears. 

Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn ! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners 

supposed; 
Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin'd to me at sunrise with something besides 

the sun. 

Encampments new! in the midst of you stands, an encampment very old; 
Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade. 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 



WALT WHITMAN • 521 

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night: 

When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day, 

One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return' d, with a look I shall never forget; 

One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground; 

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle; 

Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my way; 

Found you in death so cold, dear comrade — found your body, son of responding 
kisses, (never again on earth responding;) 

Bared your face in the starlight — curious the scene — cool blew the moderate night- 
wind; 

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading; 

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night; lo 

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh — Long, long I gazed; 

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands; 

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade — Not a 
tear, not a word; 

Vigil of silence, love and death — vigil for you my son and my soldier, 

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole; 

Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,- 

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living — I think we shall surely meet again;) 

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd, 

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form. 

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet; 2° 

And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude- 
dug grave I deposited; 

Ending my vigil strange with that — vigil of night and battlefield dim; 

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;) 

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain — vigil I never forget, how as day brighten' d, 

I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket, 

And buried him where he fell. 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 

THE DRESSER I 

1870 
1 

An old man bending, I come, among new faces. 

Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children. 

Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me; 

Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances. 

Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;) 

Now be witness again — paint the mightiest armies of earth; 

Of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us? 

What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, 

Of hard- fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains? 



O maidens and young men I love, and that love me, lo 

What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls ; 
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover'd with sweat and dust; 
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of suc- 
cessful charge; 
Enter the captur'd works ... yet lo! like a swift-running river, they fade; 

^ See footnote to "Drum-Taps," page 516. In Whitman's Prose Works, in this connection 
should be read "The Wound Dresser" and the pages from "Specimen Days" which cover his 
hospital experience. 



522 AMERICAN POETRY 

Pass and are gone, they fade — I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers' joys; 
(Both I remember -well — many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.) 

But in silence, in dreams' projections, 

While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, 
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand. 
In nature's reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I enter the doors — (while for 
you up there, 20 

Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of strong heart.) 



Bearing the bandages, water and sponge. 

Straight and swift to my wounded I go. 

Where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought in; 

Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground; 

Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital; 

To the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, I return; 

To each and all, one after another, I draw near — not one do I miss; 

An attendant follows, holding a tray — he carries a refuse pail, 

Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied and fill'd again. 30 

I onward go, I stop. 

With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds; 

I am firm with each — the pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable; 

One turns to me his appealing eyes — (poor boy! I never knew you. 

Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.) 



Qn, on I go! — (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) 

The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand, tear not the bandage away;) 

The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and through, I examine; 

Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard; " 

(Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death! 40 

In mercy come quickly.) 

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, 

I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood; 
Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curv'd neck, and side- falling head; 
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, (he dares not look on the bloody stump, 
And has not yet look'd on it.) 

I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep; 

But a day or two more — for see, the frame all wasted already, and sinking, 

And the yellow-blue countenance see. 

I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound, so 

Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, 
While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the tray and pail. 

I am faithful, I do not give out; 

The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen. 

These and more I dress with impassive hand — (yet deep in my breast a fire, a 
burning flame.) 

Thus in silence, in dreams' projections, 

Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals; 

The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, _ . . 



WALT WHITMAN 523 

I sit by the restless all the dark night — some are so young; 

Some suffer so much — I recall the experience sweet and sad; ^ 

(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested, 

Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.) 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 



GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN 

1 

Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling; 

Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard; 

Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows; 

Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape; 

Give me fresh corn and wheat — give me serene-moving animals, teaching content; 

Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of Mississippi, and I looking 

up at the stars; 
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk un- 

disturb'd ; 
Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman, of whom I should never tire; 
Give me a perfect child — give me, away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural, 

domestic life; 
Give me to warble spontaneous songs, reliev'd, recluse by myself, for my own ears 

only ; lo 

Give me solitude — give me Nature — give me again, O Nature, your primal sanities ! 
— These, demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack'd by 

the war-strife;) 
These to procure, incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart. 
While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city; 
Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking your streets. 
Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time, refusing to give me up; 
Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul — you give me forever faces; 
(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries; 
I see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for.) 

2 

Keep your splendid, silent sun; 20 

Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods; 

Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards; 

Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the Ninth-month bees hum; 

Give me faces and streets ! give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the 
trottoirs ! 

Give me interminable eyes ! give me women ! give me comrades and lovers by the 
thousand ! 

Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand every day! 

Give me such shows I give me the streets of Manhattan! 1 

Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching — give me the sound of the trum- 
pets and drums! 

(The soldiers in companies or regiments — some, starting away, flush'd and reckless; 

Some, their time up, returning, with thinn'd ranks — young, yet very old, worn, 
marching, noticing nothing;) 3° 

^ I realize . . . that not Nature alone is great in her fields of freedom and the open air, 
in her storms, the shows of night and day, the mountains, forests, seas — but in the artificial, the 
work of man, too, is equally great — in this profusion of teeming humanity — in these ingenuities, 
goods, streets, houses, ships, — these hurrying, feverish electric crowds of men, their complicated 
business genius (not least among the genuises) and all this mighty, many-threaded wealth concen- 
trated here. (Whitman in his "Collect.") 



524 AMERICAN POETRY 

— Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed with the black ships! 

O such for me! O an intense hfe! O full to repletion, and varied! 

The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me ! 

The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torch-light pro- 
cession ! 

The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following; 

People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants ; 

Manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as now; 

The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of 
the wounded;) 

Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus — with varied chorus, and 
light of the sparkling eyes; 

Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. 40 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 



SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAY-BREAK 

Poet 
O a new song, a free song. 

Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer. 
By the wind's voice and that of the drum. 

By the banner's voice, and child's voice, and sea's voice, and father's voice. 
Low on the ground and high in the air, 
On the ground where father and child stand. 
In the upward air where their eyes turn, 
Where the banner at day-break is flapping. 

Words ! book- words ! what are you ? 

Words no more, for hearken and see, ^° 

My song is there in the open air — and I must sing, 

With the banner and pennant a-flapping. 

I'll weave the chord and twine in, 

Man's desire and babe's desire — I'll twine them in, I'll put in life; 

I'll put the bayonet's flashing point — I'll let bullets and slugs whizz; 

(As one carrying a symbol and menace, far into the future. 

Crying with trumpet voice, Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!) 

I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of joy; 

Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete, 

With the banner and pennant a-flapping. 20 

Pennant 
Come up here, bard, bard; 
Come up here, soul, soul; 
Come up here, dear little child. 
To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless light. 

Child 

Father, what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger? 
And what does it say to me all the while? 

Father 

Nothing, my babe, you see in the sky; 

And nothing at all to you it says. But look you, my babe, 

Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the money-shops opening; 

And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with goods : 30 



WALT WHITMAN 525 

These! ah, these! how valued and toil'd for, these! 
How envied by all the earth ! 

Poet 

Fresh and rosy red, the sun is mounting high; 

On floats the sea in distant blue, careering through its channels; 

On floats the wind over the breast of the sea, setting in toward land; 

The great steady wind from west and west-by-south. 

Floating so buoyant, with milk-white foam on the waters. 

But I am not the sea, nor the red sun; 

I am not the wind, with girlish laughter; 

Not the immense wind which strengthens — not the wind which lashes; 4o 

Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death; 

But_ I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings. 

Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land, 

Which the birds know in the woods, mornings and evenings, 

And the shore-sands know, and the hissing wave, and that banner and pennant. 

Aloft there flapping and flapping. 

Child 

O father, it is alive — it is full of people — it has children ! 

now it seems to me it is talking to its children ! 

1 hear it — it talks to me — O it is wonderful ! 

it stretches — it spreads and runs so fast ! O my father, so 
It is so broad, it covers the whole sky! 

Father 
Cease, cease, my foolish babe. 

What you are saying is sorrowful to me — much it displeases me; 
Behold with the rest, again I say — behold not banners and pennants aloft; 
But the well-prepared pavements behold — and mark the solid-wall'd houses. 

Banner and Pennant 

Speak to the child, O bard, out of Manhattan; 

(The war is over — ^yet never over . . . out of it, we are born to real life and 

identity;) 
Speak to our children all, or north or south of Manhattan, 
Where our factory-engines hum, where our miners delve the ground. 
Where our hoarse Niagara rumbles, where our prairie-ploughs are ploughing; 60 

Speak, O bard! point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all — and yet we know 

not why; 
For what are we, mere strips of cloth, profiting nothing, 
Only flapping in the wind? 

Poet 

1 hear and see not strips of cloth alone; 

I hear again the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry; 

I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men — I hear Liberty! 

I hear the drums beat, and the trumpets yet blowing; 

I myself move abroad, swift-rising, flying then; 

I use the wings of the land-bird, and use the wings of the sea-bird, and look down 

as from a height; 
I do not deny the precious results of peace — I see populous cities, with wealth 

incalculable ; 7o 



526 AMERICAN POETRY 

I see numberless farms — I see the farmers working in their fields or barns; 

I see mechanics working — I see buildings everywhere founded, going up, or fin- 
ish'd ; 

I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks, drawn by the loco- 
motives ; 

I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans; 

I see far in the West the immense area of grain — I dwell awhile, hovering; 

I pass to the lumber forests of the north, and again to the southern plantation, and 
again to California ; 

Sweeping the whole, I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, earned wages; 

See the identity formed out of thirty-eight spacious and haughty States (and many 
more to come;) 

See forts on the shores of harbors — see ships sailing in and out; 

Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen' d pennant, shaped like a sword, 8° 

Runs swiftly up, indicating war and defiance — And now the halyards have rais'd it, 

Side of my banner broad and blue — side of my starry banner, 

Discarding peace over all the sea and land. 

Banner and Pennant 

Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave! 

No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone; 

We may be terror and carnage, and are so now; 

Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any five, nor 

ten;) 
Nor market nor depot are we, nor money-bank in the city; 
But these, and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines below, are 

ours; 
And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers, great and small; 90 

And the fields they moisten are ours, and the crops and the fruits are ours; 
Bays and channels, and ships sailing in and out, are ours — and we over all, 
Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square miles — the capitals, 
The forty miUions of people — O bard ! in life and death supreme, 
We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above. 
Not for the present alone, for a thousand years, chanting through you, 
This song to the soul of one poor little child. 

Child 
O my father, I like not the houses ; 

They will never to me be anything— nor do I like money; 

But to mount up there I would like, O father dear — that banner I like; 100 

That pennant I would be, and must be. 

Father 

Child of mine, you fill me with anguish; 

To be that pennant would be too fearful; 

Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever; 

It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything; 

Forward to stand in front of wars — and O, such wars ! — what have you to do with 

them? 
With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death? 

Poet 
Demons and death then I sing; 

Put in all, aye all, will I— sword-shaped pennant for war, and banner so broad 
and blue, 



WALT WHITMAN 527 

And a pleasure new and extatic, and the prattled yearning of children, "o 

Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land, and the liquid wash of the sea; 

And the black ships, fighting on the sea, enveloped in smoke; 

And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines; 

And the whirr of drums, and the sounds of soldiers marching, and the hot sun ^ 

shining south ; '< 

And the beech-waves combing over the beach on my eastern shore, and my western 

shore the same; 
And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi, with bends and 

chutes ; 
And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri ; 
The Continent — devoting the whole identity, without reserving an atom. 
Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all, and the yield of all. 

Aye all! for ever, for all! ^^o 

From sea to sea, north and south, east and west, 

(The war is completed, the price is paid, the title is settled beyond recall;) 

Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole; 

No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound, 

But, out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more, 

Croaking like crows here in the wind. 

Poet. 

(Finale) 
My limbs, my veins dilate ; ~ ' 

The blood of the world has fill'd me full — my theme is clear at last: 
— Banner so broad, advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and resolute; 
I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd and blinded; 130 

My sight, my hearing and tongue, are come to me, (a little child taught me;) 
I hear from above, O pennant of war, your ironical call and demand; 
Insensate! insensate! (yet I at any rate chant you,) O banner! 
Not houses of peace indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity, (if need be, 

you shall again have every one of those houses to destroy them; 
You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of comfort, 

built with money ; 
May they stand fast, then? Not an hour, except you, above them and all, stand 

fast;) 
— O banner ! not money so precious are you, not farm produce you, nor the material 

good nutriment. 
Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships ; 

Not the superb ships, with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying cargoes. 
Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues, — But you, as henceforth I see you, 140 
Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars,_ (ever-enlarging stars;) 
Divider of day-break you, cutting the air, touch'd by the sun, measuring the sky, 
(Passionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little child. 
While others remain busy, or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, thrift;) 

you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake, hissing so curious. 
Out of reach — an idea only — yet furiously fought for, risking bloody death — loved 

by me ! . 
So loved ! O you banner leading the day, with stars brought from the night ! 
Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all — (absolute owner of All) — 

O banner and pennant ! 

1 too leave the rest — great as it is, it is nothing — houses, machines are nothing — I 

see them not; 
I see but you, O warlike pennant ! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing you only, 150 
Flapping up there in the wind. 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 



528 AMERICAN POETRY 



PIONEERS! O PIONEERS! 

1 

Come, my tan- faced children, 
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; 
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes? 

Pioneers I O pioneers ! 

2 
For we cannot tarry here, 
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, 
We, the youthful sinewy race, all the rest on us depend. 
Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 



O you youths, western youths, 
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship. 
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

4 

Have the elder races halted? 
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas? 
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 



All the past we leave behind; 
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world. 
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, 

Pioneers I O pioneers ! 



We detachments steady throwing, 
Down the .edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep. 
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

7 

We primeval forests felling. 
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines within; 
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving. 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 



Colorado men are we, 
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus, 3o 

From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 



From Nebraska, from Arkansas, 
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood intervein'd; 
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 



WALT WHITMAN 529 

10 

O resistless, restless race ! 
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all! 
O I mourn and yet exult — I am rapt with love for all, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers I 4*> 

11 

Raise the mighty mother mistress, 
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, (bend your heads all,) 
Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd mistress, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

12 

See, my children, resolute children, 
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter, 
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging. 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

13 

On and on, the compact ranks, 
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fiU'd, S© 

Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

14 

to die advancing on ! 

Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come? 
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd, 
Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

15 

All the pulses of the world, 
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat; 
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! . ^ 

16 

Life's involv'd and varied pageants, 
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work, 
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

17 

All the hapless silent lovers, 
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked. 
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

18 

1 too with my soul and body. 

We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, 7o 

Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing. 
Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 



530 AMERICAN POETRY 

19 

Lo ! the darting bowling orb i 
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets; 
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

20 

These are of us, they are with us, 
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind, 
We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

21 

O you daughters of the west! 
O you young and elder daughters ! O you mothers and you wives ! 
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united. 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

22 

Minstrels latent on the prairies ! 
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep — you have done your work;) 
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

23 

Not for delectations sweet; 
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious; 9o 

Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

24 

Do the f casters gluttonous feast? ' 
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors? 
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

25 

Has the night descended? 
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on our way? 
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious, 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

26 ; 

Till with sound of trumpet. 
Far, far off the day-break call — hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind; 
Swift! to the head of the army! — swift! spring to your places. 

Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 



WALT WHITMAN 531 

YEARS OF THE MODERN 

Years of the modern! years of the unperform'd! 

Your horizon rises — I see it parting awaj^ for more august dramas, 

I see not America only — I see not only Liberty's nation, but other nations preparing; 

I see tremendous entrances and exits — I see new combinations — I see the solidarity 

of races; 
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world's stage; 
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts suitable to 

them closed?) 
1 see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious, and very haughty, with Law on one 

side, and Peace on the other. 
A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste; 
— What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach? 

I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions; *° 

I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken ; 
I see the landmarks of European kings removed; 

I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give way;) 
— Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day; 
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God; 
Lo ! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest; 

His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere — he colonizes the Pacific, the archi- 
pelagoes ; 
With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale engines of 

war, 
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all geography, all lands; 
— What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing under the seas? ^o 
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe? 
Is humanity forming, en-masse? — for lo ! tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim; 
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war; 
No one knows what will happen next — such portents fill the days and nights; 
Years prophetical ! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full 

of phantoms; 
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me; 
This incredible rush and heat — this strange extatic fever of dreams, O years! 
-Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep 

or wake !) 
The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, 
The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me. 3° 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865, under title of "Years of the Unperformed." 



WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER i 

When I heard the learn'd astronomer; 

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; 

When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; 

When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the 

lecture-room, 
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; 
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself. 
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, 
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars. 

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865. 

*See "Specimen Days," Oct. 20, 1863; July 22, 1878; Apr. 5, 1879, and Feb. 10, 1881. 



532 ^ AMERICAN POETRY 

PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S BURIAL HYMNi 
"When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom' d." 

1 

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd, 

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, 

I mourn'd — and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. 

O ever-returning spring ! trinity sure to me you bring ; 
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, 
And thought of him I love. 

2 

O powerful, western, fallen star ! 

O shades of night! O moody, tearful night! 

O great star disappear'd ! O the black murk that hides the star ! 

O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me! 

O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul! 



In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd palings, 
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, 
With many a pointed blossom, rising, dehcate, with the perfume strong I love, 
With every leaf a miracle . . . and from this bush in the dooryard. 
With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, 
A sprig, with its flower, I break. 

4 
In the swamp, in secluded recesses, 
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. 
Solitary, the thrush. 

The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements. 
Sings by himself a song. 

Song of the bleeding throat ! 

Death's outlet song of life — (for well, dear brother, I know 

If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.) 



Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, 

Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep'd from the 

ground, spotting the gray debris;) 
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes — passing the endless grass; 
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown 

fields uprising; 
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards; 3° 

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, 
Night and day journeys a coffin. 

6 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, 

Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land. 

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black, 

With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, standing, 

^ See passages on Lincoln in "Specimen Days" for Aug. 12, 1863; Mar. 4, 1865; Apr. 16, 1865. 



WALT WHITMAN 533 

With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night, 

With the countless torches lit — with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads, 

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, 

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn; 4° 

With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the coffin. 

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs — Where amid these you journey, 

With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang; 

Here ! coffin that slowly passes, 

I give you my sprig of lilac. 

7 
(Nor for you, for one, alone; 

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring: 

For fresh as the morning — thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred 
death. 

All over bouquets of roses, 

O death ! I coyer you over with roses and early lilies ; so 

But mostly and now the Hlac that blooms the first, 

Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes' 

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you. 

For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.) 



O western orb, sailing the heaven ! 

Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk'd, 

As we walk'd up and down in the dark blue so mystic. 

As we walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night. 

As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night. 

As you droop'd from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars 

all look'd on;) ^ 

As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept 

me from sleep;) 
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full 

you were of woe; 
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night, 
As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night, 
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb. 
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. 

9 

Sing on, there in the swamp ! 

singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes — I hear your call; 

1 hear — I come presently — I understand you; 

But a moment I linger — for the lustrous star has detain'd me; 7o 

The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. 

10 

how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? 

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? 
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love? 

Sea-winds, blown from east and west, 

Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the 

prairies meeting : 
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, 

1 perfume the grave of him I love. 



534 AMERICAN POETRY 

11 

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? 

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, 80 

To adorn the burial-house of him I love? 

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes, 

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright. 

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, ex- 
panding the air; 

With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees 
prolific; 

In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here 
and there; 

With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows; 

And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, 

And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. 

12 
Lo ! body and soul ! this land ! 00 

Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships; 
The varied and ample land — the South and the North in the light — Ohio's shores, 

and flashing Missouri, 
And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover'd with grass and corn. 

Lo ! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty; 

The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes; 

The gentle, soft-born, measureless light; 

The miracle, spreading, bathing all — the fulfill'd noon; 

The coming eve, delicious — the welcome night, and the stars, 

Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 

13 

Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird! 100 

Sing from the swamps, the recesses — pour your chant from the bushes; 
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. 

Sing on, dearest brother — warble your reedy song; 
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. 

O liquid, and free, and tender ! 

O wild and loose to my soul ! O wondrous singer ! 

You only I hear . . . yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;) 

Yet the Hlac, with mastering odor, holds me. 

14 

Now while I sat in the day, and look'd forth, 

In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer 
preparing his crops, "o 

In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests, 
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds, and the storms;) 
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of chil- 
dren and women, 
The many-moving sea-tides, — and I saw the ships how they sail'd, 
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, 
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and 
minutia of daily usages; 



WALT WHITMAN ■ 535 

And the streets, how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent — lo ! then and 

there, 
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, 
Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail; 
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. 120 

■ 15 

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, 

And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me. 

And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, 

I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not, 

Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness. 

To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still. 

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me; 

The gray-brown bird I know, receiv'd us comrades three; 

And he sang what seem'd the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. 

From deep secluded recesses, ^30 

From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still, 
Came the carol of the bird. 

And the charm of the carol rapt me. 

As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night; 

And the voice of my spirit talHed the song of the bird. 

DEATH CAROL 

16 

Come, lovely and soothing Death, 

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving. 

In the day, in the night, to all, to each. 

Sooner or later, delicate Death. 

Prais'd be the fathomless universe, 140 

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious; 
And for love, sweet love — But praise! praise! praise! 
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool- enfolding Death. 

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet. 

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? 

Then I chant it for thee — I glorify thee above all; 

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. 

Approach, strong Deliver ess! 

When it is so — when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead. 

Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, 150 

Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. 

From me to thee glad serenades. 

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee — adornments and feastings for thee; 
And the sights of the open landscapes, and the high-spread sky, are fitting. 
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. 

The night, in silence, under many a star; 

The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know; 

And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil' d Death, 

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 



536 AMERICAN POETRY 

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song! _ _ . '^ 

Over the rising and sinking waves — over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide; 
Over the dense-pack'd cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways, 
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death! 

17 

To the tally of my 3oul, 

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, 

With pure, deHherate notes, spreading, fiUing the night. 

Loud in the pines and cedars dim, 

Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume; 

And I with my comrades there in the night. 

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, 170 

As to long panoramas of visions. 

18 

I saw askant the armies ; 

And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags; 

Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc'd with missiles, I saw them, 

And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody; 

And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) 

And the staffs all splinter'd and broken. 

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, 

And the white skeletons of young men — I saw them; 

I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war; 180 

But I saw they were not as was thought; 

They themselves were fully at rest — they suffer'd not; 

The living remain'd and suffer'd — the mother suffer'd. 

And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer'd, 

And the armies that remain'd suffer'd. 

19 
Passing the visions, passing the night; 
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands; 
Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul, 
(Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song. 
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, 190 

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, 
Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven, 
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,) 
Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves; 
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. 
I cease from my song for thee; 

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, 
O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night. 

20 

Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night; 

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, 20° 

And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, 

With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe. 

With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor; 

With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird. 



WALT WHITMAN ^ 537 

Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep — for the dead 

I loved so well; 
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands . . . and this for his dear sake; 
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul, 
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim. 

First published in "When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd," 1865-6. 



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

1 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting. 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: 
But O hCfirt! heart! heart! 
O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 



O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills ; 
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 
Here Captain ! dear father 1 
This arm beneath your head; 
It is some dream that on the deck, 
You've fallen cold and dead. 



My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; 
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won: 20 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

First published in "When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd," 1865-6. 

ONE'S-SELF I SING 

One's-self I sing — a simple, separate Person ; 

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse. 

Of Physiology from top to toe I sing; 

Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse 

— I say the Form complete is worthier far; 
The Female equally with the male I sing. 

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power. 

Cheerful — for freest action form'd, under the laws divine. 

The Modern Man I sing. 

1870. 



% 



538 AMERICAN POETRY 

THE SINGER IN THE PRISON 

1 

O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! 
O fearful thought — a convict Soul! 

Rang the refrain along the hall, the prison, 

Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, 

Pouring in floods of melody, in tones so pensive, sweet and strong, the like whereof 

was never heard. 
Reaching the far-off sentry, and the armed guards, who ceas'd their pacing, 
Making the hearer's pulses stop for extasy and awe. 



O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! 
O pardon me, a hapless Soul! 

The sun was low in the west one winter day, 

When down a narrow aisle, amid the thieves and outlaws of the land, 

(There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counterfeiters, 

Gather'd to Sunday church in prison walls — the keepers round. 

Plenteous, well-arm'd, watching, with vigilant eyes,) 

All that dark, cankerous blotch, a nation's criminal mass. 

Calmly a Lady walk'd, holding a little innocent child by either hand, 

Whom, seating on their stools beside her on the platform. 

She, first preluding with the instrument, a low and musical prelude, 

In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old hymn. 



The Hymn. 
A Soul, confined by bars and bands, » 

Cries, Help ! O help ! and wrings her hands ; 
Blinded her eyes — bleeding her breast. 
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest. 

O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! 
O fearful thought — a convict Soul! 

Ceaseless, she paces to and fro; 
O heart-sick days! O nights of wo! 
Nor hand of friend, nor loving face; 
Nor favor comes, nor word of grace. 

O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! SO 

O pardon me, a hapless Soul! 

It was not I that sinn'd the sin, 
The ruthless Body dragg'd me in; . 

Though long I strove courageously, 
The Body was too much for me. 

O Life! no life, but bitter dole! 
O burning, beaten, baffled Soul! 

(Dear prison'd Soul, bear up a space, 

For soon or late the certain grace; 

To set thee free, and bear thee home, 4^ 

The Heavenly Pardoner, Death shall come. 

Convict no more — nor shame, nor dole! 
Depart! a God-enfranchis'd Soul!) 



WALT WHITMAN 539 

4 

The singer ceas'd; 

One glance swept from her clear, calm eyes, o'er all those upturn'd faces; 

Strange sea of prison faces — a thousand varied, crafty, brutal, seam'd and beauteous 

faces ; 
Then rising, passing back alorkg the narrow aisle between them, 
While her gown touch'd them, rustling in the silence, 
She vanish'd with her children in the dusk. 



While upon all, convicts and armed keepers, ere they stirr'd, 5° 

(Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded pistol,) 

A hush and pause fell down, a wondrous minute, 

With deep, half-stifled sobs, and sound of bad men bow'd, and moved to weeping. 

And youth's convulsive breathings, memories of home. 

The mother's voice in lullaby, the sister's care, the happy childhood, 

The long-pent spirit rous'd to reminiscence; 

— A wondrous minute then — But after, in the solitary night, to many, many there. 

Years after — even in the hour of death — the sad refrain — the tune, the voice, the 

words. 
Resumed — the large, calm Lady walks the narrow aisle, 
The wailing melody again — the singer in the prison sings : 6° 

O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! 
O fearful thought — a convict Soul! 

1870. 

ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS 

(A Reminiscence of 1864.) 

1 

Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human. 

With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet? 

Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet? 



('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sand and pines. 
Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, com'st to me, 
As, under doughty Sherman, I march toward the sea.) 



Me, master, years a hundred, since from my parents sunder'd, 
A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught; 
Then hither me, across the sea, the cruel slaver brought. 



No further does she say, but lingering all the day. 

Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, 

And curtseys to the regiments, the guidons moving by. 



What is it, fateful woman — so blear, hardly human? 

Why wag your head, with turban bound — yellow, red and green? 

Are the things so strange and marvelous, you see or have seen? 

1870. 



540 AMERICAN POETRY 

THE BASE OF ALL METAPHYSICS 

And now, gentlemen, 

A word I give to remain in your memories and minds, 

As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics. 

(So, to the students, the old professor. 
At the close of his crowded course.) 

Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems, 

Kant having studied and stated — Fichte and Schelling and Hegel, 

Stated the lore of Plato — and Socrates, greater than Plato, 

And greater than Socrates sought and stated — Christ divine having studied long, 

I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems, lo 

See the philosophies all — Christian churches and tenets see, 

Yet underneath Socrates clearly see — and underneath Christ the divine I see, 

The dear love of man for his comrade — the attraction of friend to friend, 

Of the well-married husband and wife — of children and parents. 

Of city for city, and land for land. 

1870. 

O STAR OF FRANCE! 
1870-71. 

1 

O Star of France ! 

The brightness of thy hope and strength and fame. 

Like some proud ship that led the fleet so long, 

Beseems to-day a wreck, driven by the gale — a mastless hulk; 

And 'mid its teeming, madden'd, half-drown'd crowds. 

Nor helm nor helmsman. 

2 
Dim, smitten star! 

Orb not of France alone — pale symbol of my soul, its dearest hopes. 
The struggle and the daring — rage divine for liberty, 

Of aspirations toward the far ideal — enthusiast's dreams of brotherhood, w 

Of terror to the tyrant and the priest. 

3 
Star crucified! by traitors sold! 
Star panting o'er a land of death — heroic land ! 
Strange, passionate, mocking, frivolous land. 

Miserable ! yet for thy errors, vanities, sins, I will not now rebuke thee ; 
Thy unexampled woes and pangs have quell'd them all. 
And left thee sacred. 

In that amid thy many faults, thou ever aimedst highly, 

In that thou wouldst not really sell thyself, however great the price. 

In that thou surely wakedst weeping from thy drugg'd sleep, 20 

In that alone, among thy sisters, thou, Giantess, didst rend the ones that shamed thee, 

In that thou couldst not, wouldst not, wear the usual chains. 

This cross, thy livid face, thy pierced hands and feet. 

The spear thrust in thy side. 



WALT WHITMAN • 541 



O star! O ship of France, beat back and baffled long! 
Bear up, O smitten orb ! O ship, continue on ! 

Sure, as the ship of all, the Earth itself. 

Product of deathly fire and turbulent chaos. 

Forth from its spasms of fury and its poisons, 

Issuing at last in perfect power and beauty, 30 

Onward, beneath the sun, following its course, 

So thee, O ship of France! 

Finish'd the days, the clouds dispell'd. 

The travail o'er, the long-sought extrication 

When lo! reborn, high o'er the European world, 

(In gladness, answering thence, as face afar to face, reflecting ours, Columbia,) 

Again thy star, O France — fair, lustrous star. 

In heavenly peace, clearer, more bright than ever. 

Shall beam immortal. 

First published in "As a Strong Bird," 1872. 

A CAROL CLOSING SIXTY-NINE 

A carol closing sixty-nine — a resume — a repetition, 

My Hnes in joy and hope -continuing on the same. 

Of ye, O God, Life, Nature, Freedom, Poetry; 

Of you, my Land — your rivers, prairies. States — you, mottled Flag I love. 

Your aggregate retain'd entire — O north, south, east and west, your items all; 

Of me myself — the jocund heart yet beating in my breast. 

The body wreck'd, old, poor and paralyzed — the strange inertia falling pall-like 

round me. 
The burning fires down in my sluggish blood not yet extinct, 
The undiminish'd faith — the groups of loving friends. 

1888. 

GOOD-BYE MY FANCY! 
Good-bye my Fancy! 
Farewell dear mate, dear love ! 
I'm going away, I know not where. 

Or to what fortune, or whether I may ever see you again, 
So Good-bye my Fancy. 

Now for my last — let me look back a moment; 
The slower fainter ticking of the clock is in me, 
Exit, nightfall, and soon the heart-thud stopping. 

Long have we lived, joy'd, caress'd together; 

Delightful! — now separation — Good-bye my Fancy. i" 

Yet let me not be too hasty. 

Long indeed have we lived, slept, filter'd, become really blended into one ; 

Then if we die we die together (yes, we'll remain one), 

If we go anywhere we'll go together to meet what happens, 

May-be we'll be better off and bhther, and learn something. 

May-be it is yourself now really ushering me to the true songs, (who knows?) 

May-be it is you the mortal knob really undoing, turning — so now finally. 

Good-bye — and hail! my Fancy. 

1891. 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

(1825-1903) 



THE WITCH'S WHELP 

Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn, 
Covered with thick green scum; the bil- 
lows rise, 
And fill them to the brim with clouded 

foam, 
And then subside, and leave the scum 

again. 
The ribbed sand is full of hollow gulfs, 
Where monsters from the waters come 

and lie. 
Great serpents bask at noon along the 

rocks, 
To me no terror ; coil on coil they roll ^ 
Back to their holes before my flying feet. 
The Dragon of the Sea, my mother's god. 
Enormous Setebos, comes here to sleep ; 
Him I molest not; when he flaps his wing 
A whirlwind rises, when he swims the 

deep 
It threatens to engulf the trembling isle. 
Sometimes when winds do blow, and 

clouds are dark, 
I seek the blasted wood whose barkless 

trunks 
Are bleached with summer suns ; the 

creaking trees 
Stoop down to me, and swing me right 

and left 
Through crashing limbs, but not a jot 

care I, 
The thunder breaks above, and in their 

lairs ^ 

The panthers roar; from out the stormy 

clouds 
Whose hearts are fire sharp lightnings 

rain around 
And split the oaks; not faster lizards run 
Before the snake up the slant trunks than 

I, 
Not faster down, sliding with hands and 

feet. 
I stamp upon the ground, and adders 

rouse, 
Sharp-eyed, with poisonous fangs; be- 
neath the leaves 
They couch, or under rocks, and roots of 

trees 



Felled by the winds; through briery 

undergrowth 
They slide with hissing tongues, beneath 

my feet 3° 

To writhe, or in my fingers squeezed to 

death. 
There is a wild and solitary pine, 
Deep in the meadows ; all the island birds 
From far and near fly there, and learn 

new songs. 
Something imprisoned in its wrinkled 

bark 
Wails for its freedom; when the bigger 

light 
Burns in mid-heaven, and dew elsewhere 

is dried. 
There it still falls; the quivering leaves 

are tongues 
And load the air with syllables of woe. 
One day I thrust my spear within a cleft 
No wider than its point, and something 

shrieked, 41 

And falling cones did pelt me sharp as 

hail : 
I picked the seeds that grew between their 

plates, 
And strung them round my neck with sea- 
mew eggs. 
Hard by are swamps and marshes, 

reedy fens 
Knee deep in water; monsters wade 

therein 
Thick-set with plated scales ; sometimes 

in troops 
They crawl on slippery banks; sometimes 

they lash 
The sluggish waves among themselves at 

war. 
Often I heave great rocks from off the 

crags, 50 

Deep in their drowsy eyes, at which they 

howl 
And chase me inland; then I mount their 

humps 
And prick them back again, unwieldy, slow. 
At night the wolves are howling round 

the place. 
And bats sail there athwart the silver 

light, 



542 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



543 



Flapping their wings; by day in hollow 

trees 
They hide, and slink into the gloom of 

dens. 
We live, my mother Sycorax and I, 
In caves with bloated toads and crested 

snakes. 
She can make charms, and philters, and 

brew storms, 6° 

And call the great Sea Dragon from his 

deeps. 
Nothing of this know I, nor care to know. 
Give me the milk of goats in gourds or 

shells. 
The flesh of birds and fish, berries and 

fruit. 
Nor want I more, save all day long to 

he. 
And hear, as now, the voices of the sea. 



TO A CELEBRATED SINGER 

Oft have I dreamed of music such as 
thine. 
The wedded melody of lute and voice, 
Immortal strains that made my soul re- 
joice. 
And woke its inner harmonies divine. 
And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled 
seas. 
And Enna hollows all its purple vales. 
Thrice have I heard the noble nightin- 
gales. 
All night entranced beneath the bloomy 

trees. 
But music, nightingales, and all that 
Thought 
Conceives of song are naught lo 

To thy rich voice, which echoes in my 
brain, 
And fills my longing heart with a melo- 
dious pain ! 

A thousand lamps were lit, I saw them 
not. 
Nor saw the thousands round me like 
a sea; 
All things, all thoughts, all passions were 
forgot — 
I only thought of thee! 
Meanwhile the music rose sublime and 
strong, 
But sunk beneath thy voice, which rose 

alone. 
Above its crumbled fragments to thy 
throne, 
Above the clouds of Song. 20 



Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be 
The silent ministrant of Poesy. 
For not the delicate reed that Pan did play 
To partial Midas, at the match of old. 
Nor yet Apollo's lyre with chords of 
gold. 
That more than won the crown he lost 

that day, 
Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set 

free 
(O, why not all!) the lost Eurydice, 

Were fit to join with thee; 
Much less our instruments of meaner 
sound, 30 

That track thee slowly o'er enchanted 

ground. 
Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves. 
Or glean around its sheaves. 

I strive to disentangle in my mind 
Thy many-knotted threads of softest 
song. 
Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless 
wind 
Whose silence does it wrong. 
No singly tone thereof, no perfect sound, 
Lingers, but dim remembrance of the 
whole, 
A sound which was a Soul, 4° 

The Soul of Sound diffused, an atmos- 
phere around : 
So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich, and 

deep. 
So like a heavenly soul's ambrosial 

breath. 
It would not wake, but only deepen 
Sleep 
Into diviner Death ! 
Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute, 
Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh be- 
fore its own, 
It stole in mockery its every tone. 
And left it lone and mute. 
It flowed Hke hquid pearl through golden 
cells, so 

It jangled like a string of golden bells, 
It trembled like a wind in golden strings. 
It dropped and rolled away in golden 
rings : 
Then it divided and became a shout, 
That Echo chased about. 
However wild and fleet, 
Until it trod upon its heels with flying 

feet. 
At last it sank and sank from deep to 
deep. 
Below the thinnest word. 
And sank till naught was heard 60 
But charmed Silence sighing in its sleep! 



544 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty 
spell, 
My heart was lost within itself and thee, 
As when a pearl is melted in its shell, 

And sunken in the sea. 
I sank and sank beneath thy song, but still 
I thirsted after more the more I sank, 
A flower that drooped with all the dew 
it drank, 
But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill. 
My inmost soul was drunk with melody, 7o 
Which thou didst pour around, 
To crown the feast of sound. 
And lift in light to all, but chief to me. 
Whose spirit, uncontrolled, 
Drained all the fiery wine, and clutched 
its cup of gold ! 



"HOW ARE SONGS BEGOT AND 
BRED?" 

How are songs begot and bred? 
How do golden measures flow? 
From the heart, or from the head? 
Happy Poet, let me know. 

Tell me first how folded flowers 
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers; 
How the south wind shapes its tune, 
The harper, he, of June. 

None may answer, none may know, 
Winds and flowers come and go, i" 

And the selfsame canon bind 
Nature and the Poet's mind. 



"THE YELLOW MOON LOOKS 
SLANTLY DOWN" 

The yellow Moon looks slantly down. 
Through seaward mists, upon the town; 
And ghost-like there the moonshine falls 
Between the dim and shadowy walls. 

I see a crowd in every street 

But cannot hear their falling feet; 

They float Hke clouds through shade and 

light, 
And seem a portion of the Night. 

The ships have lain for ages fled 

Along the waters, dark and dead; lo 

The dying waters wash no more 

The long, black line of spectral shore. 

There is no Hfe on land or sea. 
Save in the quiet Moon and me; 
Nor ours is true, but only seems. 
Within some dead old World of Dreams. 



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH 

There are gains for all our losses, 
There are balms for all our pain : 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts. 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better. 

Under manhood's sterner reign : 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished. 

And we sigh for it in vain : 
We behold it everywhere. 
On the earth, and in the air. 
But it never comes again. 



You may drink to your leman ki gold. 
In a great golden goblet of wine; 

She's as ripe as the wine, and as bold 

As the glare of the gold : 
But this little lady of mine, 
I will not profane her in wine. 

I go where the garden so still is, 
(The moon raining through) 

To pluck the white bowls of the lilies. 
And drink her in dew ! 



The sky is a drinking-cup, 
That was overturned of old, 

And it pours in the eyes of men 
Its wine of airy gold. 

We drink that wine all day. 
Till the last drop is drained up. 

And are lighted off to bed 
By the jewels in the cup! 



The gray old Earth goes on 

At its ancient pace, 
Lifting its thunder-voice 
In the choir of space; 
And the years as they go 
Are singing slow. 
Solemn dirges, full of wo. 

Tyrants sit upon their thrones. 

And will not hear the people's moans. 

Nor hear their clanking chains : 
Or if they do they add thereto. 

And mock, not ease their pains. 

But little liberty remains. 
There is but little room for thee. 
In this wide world, O Liberty! 
But where thy foot has once been set 

Thou wilt remain, though oft unseen : 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



545. 



And grow like thought, and move like 

wind, 
Upon the troubled sea of Mind, 

No longer now serene. 20 

Thy life and strength thou dost retain, 
Despite the cell, the rack, the pain. 
And all the battles won in vain; 

And even now thou see'st the hour 
That lays in dust the thrones of Power: 
When man shall once again be free, 
And Earth renewed, and young like thee, 

Liberty! O Liberty! 

THE DIVAN 

(Persia.) 

A little maid of Astrakan, 

An idol on a silk divan; 

She sits so still, and never speaks. 

She holds a cup of mine; 
'T is full of wine, and on her cheeks 

Are stains and smears of wine. 

Thou httle girl of Astrakan, 

1 join thee on the silk divan: . 
There is no need to seek the land, 

The rich bazaars where rubies shine; 1° 
For mines are in that little hand, 
And on those little cheeks of thine. 



The sky is thick upon the sea, 
The sea is sown with rain. 

And in the passing gusts we hear 
The clanging of the crane. 

The cranes are flying to the south, 
We cut the northern foam : 

The dreary land they leave behind 
Must be our future home. 

Its barren shores are long and dark, 
And gray its autumn sky; 

But better these than this gray sea. 
If but to land — and die ! 



"POEMS OF THE ORIENT" 1 

We read your little book of Orient lays, 
And half believe old superstitions true; 
No Saxon like ourselves, an Arab, you. 
Stolen in your babyhood by Saxon fays. 
That you in fervid songs recall the blaze 

^ Addressed to Bayard Taylor, whose volume, 
"Poems of the Orient," was published by Tick- 
nor and Fields in the Autumn of 1853. A 
quarter of a century later, just after the death 
of his friend, Stoddard wrote "Reminiscences 
of Bayard Taylor," for The Atlantic Monthly 
of February, 1879. 



Of eastern suns, behold the deep-blue 

skies. 
Lie under rustling palms, breathe winds 

of spice. 
And dream of veiled sultanas, is no praise. 
All this is native to you as the air; 9 

You but regain the birthright lost of yore : 
The marvel is it now becomes your own. 
We wind the turban round our Prankish 

hair. 
Spring on our steeds that paw the desert's 

floor. 
And take the sandy solitude alone. 



IMOGEN 

Unknown to her the maids supplied 
Her wants, and gliding noiseless round 
Passed out again, while Leon's hound 
Stole in and slumbered at her side : 
Then Cloten came, a silly ape. 

And wooed her in his boorish way, 
Barring the door against escape; 

But the hound woke, and stood at bay, 
Defiant at the lady's feet. 
And made the ruffian retreat. lo 

Then for a little moment's space 
A smile did flit across the face 
Of Lady Imogen. 

Without the morning dried the dews 
From shaven lawns and pastures green: 
Meantime the court dames and the queen 
Did pace the shaded avenues : 
And Cymbeline amid his train 

Rode down the winding palace walks, 
Behind the hounds that snuffed the plain, 
And in the track of wheeling hawks ; 21 
And soon in greenwood shaws anear 
They blew their horns, and chased the deer. 
But she nor saw nor heard it there, 
But sat, a statue of despair, 
The mournful Imogen. 

She shook her ringlets round her head. 
And clasped her hands, and thought, 

and thought. 
As every faithful lady ought. 
Whose lord is far away — or dead. 3° 

She pressed in books his faded flowers. 

That never seemed so sweet before; 
Upon his picture gazed for hours. 

And read his letters o'er and o'er. 
Dreaming about the loving Past, 
Until her tears were flowing fast. 

With aches of heart, and aches of 

brain. 
Bewildered in the realms of pain. 
The wretched Imogen! 



546 



AMERICAN POETRY 



She tried to rouse herself again, 4° 

Began a broider quaint and rich, 
But pricked her fingers every stitch, 
And left in every bud a stain. 
She took her distafif, tried to spin, 

But tangled up the golden thread : 
She touched her lute, but could not win 

A happy sound, her skill had fled. 
The letters in her books w^ere blurred, 
She could not understand a word. 

Bewildered still, and still in tears, so 
The dupe of hopes, the prey of fears, 
The weeping Imogen! 

Her curtains opened in the breeze 
And showed the slowly-setting sun. 
Through vines that up the sash did 
run, 
And hovering butterflies and bees. 
A silver fountain gushed below. 

Where swans superbly swam the spray : 
And pages hurried to and fro, 

And trim gallants with ladies gay, 60 
And many a hooded monk and friar 
Went barefoot by in coarse attire. 
But like a picture, or a dream, 
The outward world did only seem, 
To thoughtful Imogen. 

When curfews rang, and day was dim, 
She glided to her chapel desk, 
Unclasped her missal arabesque. 
And sang the solemn vesper hymn : 
Before the crucifix knelt down, 7° 

And told her beads, and strove to pray; 
But Heaven was deaf, and seemed to 
frown. 
And push her idle words away : 
And when she touched the holy urn 
The icy water seemed to burn ! 

No faith had she in saints above. 
She only wanted human love, 
The pining Imogen. 

The pale moon walked the waste o'er- 
head, 
And filled the room with sickly light; 8° 
Then she arose in piteous plight. 
Disrobed herself, and crept to bed. 
The wind without was loud and deep. 

The rattling casements made her start : 
At last she slept, but in her sleep 

She pressed her fingers o'er her heart. 
And moaned, and once she gave a scream, 
To break the clutches of a dream. 

Even in her sleep she could not sleep, 
For ugly visions made her weep, 90 
The troubled Imogen. 



{Persia.) 

We parted in the streets of Ispahan. 
I stopped my camel at the city gate; 
Why did I stop? I left my heart behind. 

I heard the sighing of thy garden palms, 
I saw the roses burning up with love, 
I saAv thee not : thou wert no longer there. 

We parted in the streets of Ispahan. 

A moon has passed since that unhappy 

day; 
It seems an ag£ : the days are long as 

years. 

I send thee gifts by every caravan, 1° 
I send thee flasks of attar, spices, pearls, 
I write thee loving songs on golden scrolls. 

I meet the caravans when they return. 
"What news?" I ask. The drivers shake 

their heads. 
We parted in the streets of Ispahan. 



Day and night my thoughts incline 
To the blandishments of wine: 
Jars were made to drain, I think. 
Wine, I know, was made to drink. 

When I die, (the day be far!) 
Should the potters make a jar 
Out of this poor clay of mine. 
Let the jar be filled with wine! 



I am a white falcon, hurrah ! 

My home is the mountains so high ; 
But away o'er the lands and the waters, 

Wherever I please, I can fly. 

I wander from city to city, 

I dart from the wave to the cloud. 

And when I am dead I shall slumber 
With my own white wings for a shroud 



Break thou my heart, ah, break it, 

If such thy pleasure be; 
Thy will is mine, what say I? 

'T is more than mine to me. 

And if my life offend thee. 
My passion and my pain. 

Take thou my life, ah, take it, 
But spare me thy disdain! 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



547 



(Keaa.) 

Millions of flowers are blowing in the 
fields. 

On the blue river's brink the peony 

Burns red, and where doves coo the lute 
is heard, 

And hoarse black crows caw to the east- 
ern wind. 



Under the plane-tree in the shaded grove. 
Screened from the light and heat, the 

idler sits, 
Brooding above his chess-board all day 

long. 
Nor marks, so deep his dreams, how fast 

the sun 
Descends at evening to its western house. 

When autumn comes men close their 
doors and read, lo 

Or at the window loll to catch the breeze 
P'reighted with fragrance from the cin- 
namon. 

The snow is falling on the balustrade 

Like dying petals, and the icicle 

Hangs like a gem; all crowd around the 

fire: 
Rich men now drink their wine with 

merry hearts, 
And sing old songs, nor heed the blast 

without. 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN 
I 

The night is dark, and the winter winds 
Go stabbing about with their icy spears ; 

The sharp hail rattles against the panes. 
And melts on my cheek like tears. 

'T is a terrible night to be out of doors. 
But some of us must be, early and late ; 

We needn't ask who, for don't we know 
It has all been settled by Fate? 

Not woman, but man. Give woman her 
flowers. 
Her dresses, her jewels, or what she 
demands ; lo 

The work of the world must be done by 
man, 
Or why has he brawny hands? 



As I feel my way in the dark and cold, 
I think of the chambers warm and 
bright, 
The nests where these delicate birds of 
ours 
Are folding their wings to-night. 

Through the luminous windows, above 

and below, 

I catch a gHmpse of the life they lead : 

Some sew, some sing, others dress for 

the ball, 

While others, fair students, read. ^o 

There 's the little lady who bears my name, 
She sits at my table now, pouring her 
tea; 

Does she think of me as I hurry home, 
Hungry and wet? Not she. 

She helps herself to the sugar and cream 
In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant 
way; 

Her hands are white as the virgin rose 
That she wore on her wedding day. 

My clumsy fingers are stained with ink. 
The badge of the Ledger, the mark of 
Trade ; 3° 

But the money I give her is clean enough, 
In spite of the way it is made. 

I wear out my life in the counting-room 
Over day-book and cash-book. Bought 
and Sold; 

My brain is dizzy with anxious thought. 
My skin is as sallow as gold. 

How does she keep the roses of youth 
Still fresh in her cheek? My roses are 
flown. 

It lies in a nutshell — why do I ask? 
A woman's life is her own. 4° 

She gives me a kiss when we part for 
the day. 
Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird ; 
She reads, it at sight, and the language, 
too. 
Though I know never a word. 

She sews a little, makes collars and 
sleeves, 
Or embroiders me slippers (always too 
small,) 
Nets silken purses (for me to fill,) 
Often does nothing at all 



548 



AMERICAN POETRY 



But dream in her chamber, holding a 

flower, 

Or reading my letters — she 'd better 

read me. 5° 

Even now, while I am freezing with cold, 

She is cosily sipping her tea. 

If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud 
At the sight of a roaring fire once more ; 

She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself. 
For the nightly kiss at the door. 

I '11 have with my dinner a bottle of port, 
To warm up my blood and soothe my 
mind ; 

Then a little music, for even I 
Like music — when I have dined. 6o 

I '11 smoke a pipe in the easy-chair, 
And feel her behind me patting my 
head; 

Or drawing the little one on my knee, 
Chat till the hour for bed. 



Will he never come? I have watched for 
him 
Till the misty panes are roughened with 
sleet ; 
I can see no more : shall I never hear 
The welcome sound of his feet? 

I think of him in the lonesome night, 
Tramping along with a weary tread, 7° 

And wish he were here by the cheery fire. 
Or I were there in his stead. 

I sit by the grate, and hark for his step. 
And stare in the fire with a troubled 
mind ; 
The glow of the coals is bright in my 
face, 
But. my shadow is dark behind. 

I think of woman, and think of man. 
The tie that binds and the wrongs that 
part. 

And long to utter in burning words 
What I feel to-night in my heart. 8o 

No weak complaint of the man I love. 
No praise of myself, or my sisterhood; 

But — something that women understand — 
By men never understood. 

Their natures jar in a thousand things ; 
Little matter, alas, who is right or 
wrong. 
She goes to the wall. "She is weak," 
they say — 
It is that which makes them strong. 



Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray? 

He has, as he should, a sturdier 
frame, 9° 

And he labors early and late for me, 

But I — I could do the same. 

My hands are willing, my brain is clear. 
The world is wide, and the workers 
few; 
But the work of the world belongs to 
man, 
There is nothing for woman to do ! 

Yes, she has the holy duties of home, 
A husband to love, and children to bear, 

The softer virtues, the social arts, — 
In short, a life without care! ^°° 

So our masters say. But what do they 
know 
Of our lives and feelings when they are 
away? 
Our household duties, our petty tasks, 
The nothings that waste the day? 

Nay, what do they care ? 'T is enough for 
them 
That their homes are pleasant; they 
seek their ease: 
One takes a wife to flatter his pride, 
Another to keep his keys. 

They say they love us ; perhaps they .do, 

In a masculine way, as they love their 

wine: "o 

But the soul of woman needs something 

more. 

Or it suffers at times like mine. 

Not that Arthur is ever unkind 
In word or deed, for he loves me well; 

But I fear he thinks me as weak as the 
rest — 
(And I may be, who can tell?) 

I should die if he changed, or loved me 
less. 

For I hve at best but a restless life; 
Yet he may, for they say the kindest men 

Grow tired of a sickly wife. 120 

O, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life. 
If not for my love, and my womanly 
fears. 
At least for your child. But I hear his 
step — 
He must not find me in tears. 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



549 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

A Horatian Ode 

Not as when some great Captain falls 
In battle, where his Country calls, 
Beyond the struggling lines 
That push his dread designs 

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead : 
Or, in the last charge, at the head 
Of his determined men, 
Who must be victors then. 

Nor as when sink the civic great, 
The safer pillars of the State, lo 

Whose calm, mature, wise words 
Suppress the need of swords. 

With no such tears as e'er were shed 

Above the noblest of our dead 
Do we to-day deplore 
The Man that is no more. 

Our sorrow hath a wider scope. 
Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, 
A wonder, Mind and dumb, 
That waits — what is to come ! 20 

Not more astounded had we been 
If Madness, that dark night, unseen, 
Had in our chambers crept. 
And murdered while we slept ! 

We woke to find a mourning earth. 
Our Lares shivered on the hearth, 
The roof-tree fallen, all 
That could affright, appall! 

Such thunderbolts, in other lands, 
Have smitten the rod from royal hands, 3° 
But spared, with us, tiil now. 
Each laurelled Cassar's brow. 

No Caesar he whom we lament, 

A Man without a precedent. 

Sent, it would seem, to do 
His work, and perish, too. 

Not by the weary cares of State, 
The endless tasks, which will not wait, 
Which, often done in vain, 
Must yet be done again : 40 

Not in the dark, wild tide of war. 
Which rose so high, and rolled so far. 

Sweeping from sea to sea 

In awful anarchy; 



Four fateful years of mortal strife, 
Which slowly drained the nation's life, 
(Yet for each drop that ran 
There sprang an armed man!) 

Not then; but when, by measures meet, 
By victory, and by defeat, so 

By courage, patience, skill, 
The people's fixed "We will!" 

Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead, 
Without a hand, without a head. 

At last, when all was well, 
He fell, O how he fell ! 

The time, the place, the stealing shape. 
The coward shot, the swift escape. 

The wife, the widow's scream — 
It is a hideous Dream ! 60 

A dream? What means this pageant, 
then? 

These multitudes of solemn men. 

Who speak not when they meet, 
But throng the silent street? 

The flags half-mast that late so high 

Flaunted at each new victory? 

(The stars no brightness shed, 
But bloody looks the red!) 

The black festoons that stretch for miles. 
And turn the streets to funeral aisles? 7° 
(No house too poor to show 
The nation's badge of woe.) 

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom, 
The bells that toll of death and doom, 
The rolling of the drums. 
The dreadful car that comes? 

Cursed be the hand that fired the shot, 
The frenzied brain that hatched the plot, 
Thy country's Father slain 
Be thee, thou worse than Cain ! 80 

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou. 
And good hath followed — may it now ! 
(God lets bad instruments 
Produce the best events.) 

But he, the man we mourn to-day. 
No tyrant was : so mild a sway 

In one such weight who bore 
Was never known before. 

Cool should he be, of balanced powers. 
The ruler of a race Hke ours, 90 

Impatient, headstrong, wild. 
The Man to guide the Child. 



550 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And this he was, who most unfit 
(So hard the sense of God to hit,) 
Did seem to fill his place, 
With such a homely face. 

Such rustic manners, speech uncouth, 
(That somehow blundered out the truth,) 
Untried, untrained to bear 
The more than kingly care. i°° 

Ay ! And his genius put to scorn 
The proudest in the purple born. 

Whose wisdom never grew 
To what, untaught, he knew. 

The People, of whom he was one. 
No gentleman, like Washington, 

(Whose bones, methinks, make 
room, 

To have him in their tomb!) 

A laboring man, with horny hands, ^°9 
Who swung the axe, who tilled his lands, 
W'ho shrank from nothing new, 
But did as poor men do. 

One of the People ! Born to be 

Their curious epitome ; 

To share yet rise above 
Their shifting hate and love. 

Common his mind (it seemed so then), 
His thoughts the thoughts of other men : 
Plain were his words, and poor. 
But now they will endure ! ^-o 

No hasty fool, of stubborn will. 
But prudent, cautious, pliant still; 

Who since his work was good 
Would do it as he could. 

Doubting, was not ashamed to doubt, 
And, lacking prescience, went without : 
Often appeared to halt. 
And was, of course, at fault; 

Heard all opinions, nothing loath, 
And, loving both sides, angered both : 130 
Was — twt like Justice, blind, 
But, watchful, clement, kind. 

No hero this of Roman mould, 
Nor like our stately sires of old : 
Perhaps he was not great, 
But he preserved the State ! 

O honest face, which all men knew ! 
O tender heart, but known to few ! 

O wonder of the age, 

Cut off by tragic rage ! 140 



Peace ! Let the long procession come, 
For hark, the mournful, muffled drum, 
The trumpet's wail afar, 
And see, the awful car! 

Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
While cannon boom and bells toll slow. 
And go, thou sacred car, 
Bearing our woe afar ! 

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait ^so 
To honor all they can 
The dust of that good man. 

Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain. 

The just, the wise, the brave, 
Attend thee to the grave. 

And you, the soldiers of our wars. 
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars. 

Salute him once again, 

Your late commander — slain ! 16° 

Yes, let your tears indignant fall, 
But leave your muskets on the wall; 
Your country needs you now 
Beside the forge — the plough. 

(When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, 
If Mercy may not stay 'her hand. 
Nor would we have it so. 
She must direct the blow.) 

And you, amid the master-race, 
Who seem so strangely out of place, 170 
Know ye who cometh? He 
Who hath declared ye free. 

Bow while the body passes — nay. 
Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray ! 
Weep, weep — I would ye might — 
Your poor black faces white ! 

And, children, you must come in bands. 
With garlands in your little hands, 
Of blue and white and red, 
To strew before the dead. 'So 

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 

The Fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome. 
But in his modest home; 

The churchyard where his children rest. 

The quiet spot that suits him best, 

There shall his grave be made. 
And there his bones be laid. 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



551 



And there his countrymen shall come, 
With memory proud, with pity dumb, ^9° 
And strangers far and near, 
For many and many a year. 

For many a year and many an age, 
While History on her ample page 

The virtues shall enroll 

On that Paternal Soul. 



VATES PATRI^ 
{November 3, 1794 

There came a Woman in the night. 
When winds were whist, and moonlight 
smiled, 

Where in his mother's arms, who slept. 
There lay a new-born child. 

She gazed at him with loving looks, 
And while her hand upon his head 

She laid, in blessing and in power. 
In slow, deep words she said : 

"This child is mine. Of all my sons 
Are none like what the lad shall be ; lo 

Though these are wise, and those are 
strong. 
And all are dear to me. 

Beyond their arts of peace and war 
The gift that unto him belongs. 

To see my face, to read my thoughts, 
To learn my silent songs. 

The elder sisters of my race 

Shall taunt no more that I am dumb; 

Hereafter I shall sing through him. 
In ages yet to come." _ ^o 

She stooped, and kissed his baby mouth, 
Whence came a breath of melody, 

As from the closed leaves of a rose 
The murmur of a bee. 

Thus did she consecrate the child. 

His more than mother from that hour, 

Albeit at first he knew her not, 
Nor guessed his sleeping power. 

But not the less she hovered near. 
And touched his spirit unawares ; 3o 

Burned in the red of morning skies, 
And breathed in evening airs. 

Unfelt in his, her guiding hand 
Withdrew him- from the halls of men. 

To where her secret bowers were built, 
In wood, and grove, and glen. 

^The birth-date of William Cullen Bryant. 



Sometimes he caught a transient glimpse 
Of her broad robe, that swept before, 

Deep in the heart of ancient woods. 
Or by the sounding shore. 4° 

One prosperous day he chanced to see 
(Be sure 't was in a lonely place) 

Her glance of pride, that sought his own, 
At last her noble face. 

Not as it fronts her children now. 
With clouded brows, and looks of ire. 

And eyes that would be blind with tears 
But for their quenchless fire ! 

But happy, gracious, beautiful. 

And more imperial than a queen; 5° 
A Woman of majestic mould. 

And most maternal mien. 

And he was happy. For in her 

("For he," she said, "shall read my 
mind,") 

He saw the glory of the earth, 
The hope of human kind. 

Thenceforth, wherever he might walk. 
Through forest aisles, or by the sea; 

Where floats the flowerhke butterfly, 
And hums the drowsy bee; 6o 

By rock-ribbed hills, and pensive vales 
That stretch in light and shade between, 

And by the soft-complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green : 

He felt her presence everywhere, 
To-day was glad, to-morrow grave; 

And what she gave to him in thought. 
To us in song he gave : 

In stately songs, in solemn hymns, 

(Few are so clear, and none so high,) 7° 

That mirrored her, in calm and storm. 
As mountain lakes the sky. 

And evermore one shape appeared, 
To comfort now, and now command, 

A bearded Man, with many scars. 
Who bore a battle-brand. 

And she was filled with serious joy, 
To know her poet followed him; 

Not losing heart, nor bating hope. 
When others' faith was dim. 8o 

And as the years went slowly by. 

And she grew stronger and more wise. 

Stretching her hands o'er broader lands. 
And grander destinies; 

And he, our poet, poured his hymns, 
Serene, prophetic, sad, as each 

Became a part of her renown. 
And of his native speech; 



552 



AMERICAN POETRY 



She wove, by turns, a wreath for him, 
Tlie business of her idle hours; 9° 

And here were sprigs of mountain pine, 
And there were prairie flowers. 

And now, even in her sorest need, 
Pale, bleeding, faint in every limb, 

She still remembers what he is, 
And comes to honor him. 

For hers, not ours, the songs we bring. 
The flowers, the music and the light; 

And 't is her hand that lays the wreath 
On his gray head to-night ! loo 

1864? 
THE COUNTRY LIFE 

Not what we would, but what we must, 

Makes up the sum of living; 
Heaven is both more and less than just 

In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that sought the 

plough. 
And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 

Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 
Have worn its stony highways, 

Familiar with its loneliest street — 
Its ways were never my ways. lo 

My cradle was beside the sea,' 

And there, I hope, my grave will be. 

Old homestead ! In that old, gray town. 
Thy vane is seaward blowing. 

Thy slip of garden stretches down 
To where the tide is flowing; 

Below they lie, their sails all furled, 

The ships that go about the world. 

Dearer that little country house. 

Inland, with pines beside it; 20 

Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 
A well, with weeds to hide it: 

No flowers, or only such as rise 

Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 

Dear country home! Can I forget 
The least of thy sweet trifles? 

The window-vines that clamber yet, 
Whose blooms the bee still rifles i^ 

The roadside blackberries, growing ripe. 

And in the woods the Indian Pipe? 30 

Happy the man who tills his field. 

Content with rustic labor; 
Earth does to him her fulness vield. 

Hap what may to his neighbor. 
Well days, sound nights, O can there be 
A life more rational and free? 



Dear country life of child and man! 

For both the best, the strongest, 
That with the earliest race began, 

And hast outlived the longest. 40 

Their cities perished long ago , 
Who the first farmers were we know. 

Perhaps our Babels too will fall. 

If so, no lamentations. 
For Mother Earth will shelter all, 

And feed the unborn nations; 
Yes, and the swords that menace now 
Will then be beaten to the plough. 



A CATCH 

Once the head is gray. 
And the heart is dead, 

There 's no more to do, 
Alake the man a bed 

Six foot under ground. 

There he '11 slumber sound. 

Golden was my hair, 
And my heart did beat 

To the viol's voice 
Like the dancers' feet. 

Not colder now his blood 

Who died before the flood. 

Fair, and fond, and false. 
Mother, wife, and maid, 

Never lived a man 
They have not betrayed. 

None shall 'scape mv mirth 

But old Alother Earth. 

Safely housed with her, 

With no company 
But my brother Worm, 

Who will feed on me, 
I shall slumber sound. 
Deep down under ground. 



THE KING IS COLD 

Rake the embers, blow the coals. 
Kindle at once a roaring fire. 
Here 's some paper. 'T is nothing. Sire 
Light It. (They 've saved a thousand 

souls !) 
f^'i" for fagots, you scurvv knaves, 
There are plenty out in the public 

square. 
You know they fry the heretics there- 
(but God remembers their nameless 
graves!) 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



553 



Fly, fly, or the King may die ! 

Ugh ! his royal feet are Hke snow, '" 
And the cold is mounting up to his heart, 

(But that was frozen long ago!) 
Rascals, varlets, do as you 're told — 
The King is cold. 

His hed of state is a grand affair, 
With sheets of satin and pillows of 

down, 
And close beside it stands the crown ; 
But that won't keep him from dying 

there. 
His hands are wrinkled, his hair is gray, 
And his ancient blood is sluggish and 
thin; 20 

When he was young it was hot vv'ith sin. 
But that is over this many a day. 
Under these sheets of satin and lace 

He slept in the arms of his concubines; 
Now they rouse with the Prince instead. 

Drinking the maddest, merriest wines. 
It 's pleasant to hear such catches trolled, 
Now the King is cold. 

What shall I do with his Majesty now? 
For, thanks to my potion, the man is 
dead. 30 

Suppose I bolster him up in bed, 
And fix the crown again on his brow? 
That would be merry! But then the 
Prince 
Would tumble it, down, I know, in a 

trice: 
It would puzzle the Devil to name a 
vice 
That would make his excellent Highness 

wince. 
But hark, he 's coming, I know his step : 
He 's stealing to see if his wishes are 
true. 
Ah, Sire, may your father's end be yours. 
(With just such a son to murder you!) 
Peace to the dead ! Let the bells be 
tolled, 41 

The King is cold! 

THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES 
BLEEDING 

I met a little maid one day. 

All in the bright May weather; 
She danced, and brushed the dew away 

As lightly as a feather. 
She had a ballad in her hand 

That she had just been reading. 
But was too young to understand 
That ditty of a distant land, 

"The flower of love lies bleeding." 



She tripped across the meadow grass, 'o 
To where a brook was flowing. 

Across the brook like wind did pass, 
Wherever flowers were growing 

Like some bewildered child she flew. 
Whom fairies were misleading: 
"Whose butterfly," I said, "are you? 

And what sweet thing do you pursue?" 
"The flower of love lies bleeding. 

"I've found the wild rose in the- kedge, 

And found the tiger-lily, 20 

The blue flag by the water's edge, 

The dancing daffodilly, 
King-cups and pansies, every flower 

Except the one I'm needing; 
Perhaps it grows in some dark bower, 
And opens at a later hour. 

This flower of love lies bleeding." 

"I wouldn't look for it," I said, 

"For you can do without it. 
There 's no such flower." She shook her 
head. 3° 

"But I have read about it!" 
I talked to her of bee and bird. 

But she was all unheeding: 
Her tender heart was strangely stirred. 
She harped on that unhappy word, 

"The flower of love lies bleeding!" 

"My child," I sighed, and dropped a tear, 

"I would no longer mind it; 
You '11 find it some day, never fear, 

For all of us must find it. 40 

I found it many a year ago. 

With one of gentle breeding; 
You and the little lad you know, 
I see why you are weeping so — 

Your flower of love lies bleeding !" 



"WHAT HARMONIOUS IS WITH 
THEE" 

What harmonious is with thee, 
O Universe ! is so with me. 
Nothing too early, or too late. 
That is at thy appointed date. 
Everything is fruit to me, 

Which thy seasons, Nature, bring: 
All things from thee, and all in thee, 

To thee returneth everything. 
"Dear city of Cecropia," 

The poet said its streets who trod: 'o 
Wilt thou not say — be wise and say — 

"Dear city of the living God!" 



554 



AMERICAN POETRY 



"THOUGH THOU SHOULDST 
LIVE A THOUSAND YEARS" 

Though thou shouldst live a thousand 
years, 

Whatever fate gives, 
Or what refuses, 
Let this support thee in thy fears, 
Let this console thee in thy tears, 
Man loses but the life he lives. 
And only lives the life he loses. 
Longest and shortest are but one : 
The present is the same to all ; 
The past is done with and forgot; lo 
The future is not yet begun ; 
Nothing from either can befall, 

For none can lose what he has not. 
All things from all Eternity 

Come round and round the whirling 
spheres; 



It makes no difference if we see 

The same things for a hundred years, 

Or for a million. They are here. 

Who longest lives, who shortest dies, 
Loses the same sweet earth and skies, 

For they remain — we disappear. 21 

"TO BEAR WHAT IS, TO BE 
RESIGNED" 

To bear what is, to be resigned. 
The mark is of a noble mind. 
Stir not thy hand, or foot, or heart, 
Be not disturbed, for Destiny 
Is more attached, O man, to thee 

Than to thyself thou art ! 
If patience had but been thy guest. 

Thy destined portion would have come, 
And like a lover on thy breast 

Have flung itself, and kissed thee dumb ! 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER 

(1841-1913) 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUAi 



Years after, shelter'd from the sun 

Beneath a Sacramento bay, 

A black Muchacho by me lay 

Along the long grass crisp and dun. 

His brown mule browsing by his side. 

And told with all a Peon's pride 

How he once fought ; how long and well, 

Broad breast to breast, red hand to hand, 

Against a foe for his fair land. 

And how the fierce invader fell ; ^° 

And, artless, told me how he died: 

How walked he from the prison-wall 
Dress'd like some prince for a parade, 
And made no note of man or maid, 
But gazed out calmly over all. 
He look'd far off, half paused, and then 
Above the mottled sea of men 
He kiss'd his thin hand to the sun; 
Then smiled so proudly none had known 
But he was stepping to a throne, 20 

Yet took no note of any one. 

A nude brown beggar Peon child. 
Encouraged as the captive smiled, 
Look'd up, half scared, half pitying; 
He stopp'd, he caught it from the sands. 
Put bright coins in its two brown hands. 
Then strode on like another king. 

Two deep, a musket's length, they stood 
A-front, in sandals, nude, and dun 
As death and darkness wove in one, 30 
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood. 
He took each black hand one by one, 

1 1 wrote this poem for John Brown. You 
can see John Brown of Harper's Ferry in his 
bearing, for Walker was not of imposing pres- 
ence; also in his tenderness to the colored child 
on his way to death. But when about to pub- 
lish I saw a cruel account of Gen. Walker and 
his grave at Truxilo, Honduras, in a London 
newspaper. It stated among other mean things 
that a board stood at the head of his grave with 
this inscription: 

"Here lies buried W. W., 

Who never more will trouble you, trouble you." 
I by good fortune had ready for my new book 
an account of a ride through a Central Ameri- 
can forest. Putting this and the John Brown 
poem together in haste and anger, and working 
them over, I called the new poem "With Walker 
in Nicaragua." {Author's Note.) 



And, smiling with a patient grace. 
Forgave them all and took his place. 

He bared his broad brow to the sun. 

Gave one long, last look to the sky. 

The white wing'd clouds that hurried by. 

The olive hills in orange hue; 

A last list to the cockatoo 

That hung by beak from mango-bough 4° 

Hard by, and hung and sung as though 

He never was to sing again, 

Hung all red-crown'd and robed in green. 

With belts of gold and blue between. 

A bow, a touch of heart, a pall 
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud, 
A warrior's raiment rolled in blood, 
A face in dust and — that was all. 

Success had made him more than king; 
Defeat made him the vilest thing 5° 

In name, contempt or hate can bring; 
So much the leaded dice of war 
Do make or mar of character. 

Speak ill who will of him, he died 
In all disgrace; say of the dead 
His heart was black, his hands were red — . 
Say this much, and be satisfied ; 
Gloat over it all undenied. 
I simply say he was my friend 
When strong of hand and fair of fame: 
Dead and disgraced, I stand the same 61 
To him, and so shall to the end. 

I lay this crude wreath on his dust. 
Inwove with sad, sweet memories 
Recall'd here by these colder seas. 
I leave the wild bird with his trust. 
To sing and say him nothing wrong; 
I wake no rivalry of song. 



555 



He lies low in the levell'd sand, 
Unshelter'd from the tropic sun. 
And now of all he knew not one 
Will speak him fair in that far land. 
Perhaps 't was this that made me seek. 
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide; 
A weakness for the weaker side, 
A siding with the helpless weak. 



70 



556 



AMERICAN POETRY 



A palm not' far held out a hand, 
Hard by a long green bamboo swung, 
And bent like some great bow unstrung, 
And quiver'd like a willow wand; 80 

Perch'd on its fruits that crooked hang, 
Beneath a broad banana's leaf. 
A bird in rainbow splendor sang 
A low, sad song of temper'd grief. 

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone 
But at his side a cactus green 
Upheld its lances long and keen; 
It stood in sacred sands, alone. 
Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; 
One bloom of crimson crown'd its head, 
A drop of blood, so bright, so red, 91 
Yet redolent as roses' tears. 

In my left hand I held a shell, 
All rosy lipp'd and pearly red; 
I laid it by his lowly bed. 
For he did love so passing well 
The grand songs of the solemn sea. 

shell ! sing well, wild, with a will. 
When storms blow loud and birds be still. 
The wildest sea-song known to thee ! ^°° 

1 said some things with folded hands, 
Soft whisper'd in the dim sea-sound. 
And eyes held humbly to the ground. 
And frail knees sunken in the sands. 
He had done more than this for me, 
And yet I could not well do more: 

1 turn'd me down the olive shore. 
And set a sad face to the sea. 

London, 1871. 



THE LAST TASCHASTASi 



From cold east shore to warm west sea 
The red men followed the red sun, 
And faint and failing fast as he. 
They knew too well their race was run. 

^Tc'hastas; a name given to King John by 
the French, a corruption of chaste; for he was 
a pure, just man and a great warrior. He was 
king of the Rouge (Red) River Indians of 
Oregon, and his story is glorious with great 
deeds in defense of his people. When finally 
overpowered he and his son Moses were put 
on a ship at Port Oxford and sent to Fort Al- 
catraz in the Golden Gate. In mid ocean, these 
two Indians, in irons, rose up, and, after a 
bloody fight, took the ship. But one had lost 
a leg, the other an arm, and so they finally had 
to let loose the crew atid soldiers, tumble into 
the hold and surrender themselves again; for 



This ancient tribe, press'd to the wave, 
There fain had slept a patient slave. 
And died out as red embers die 
From flames that once leapt hot and high ; 
But, roused to anger, a sudden flood, 
A hot and hungry cry for blood; 10 

Half drowsy shook a feeble hand. 
Then sank back in a tame repose. 
And left him to his fate and foes, 
A stately wreck upon the strand. 

His eye was like the lightning's wing. 
His voice was like a rushing flood; 
And when a captive bound he stood 
His presence look'd the perfect king. 

'T was held at first that he should die: 
I never knew the reason why 20 

A milder council did prevail. 
Save that we shrank from blood, and save 
That brave men do respect the brave. 
Down sea sometimes there was a sail. 
And far at sea, they said, an isle. 
And he was sentenced to exile; 
In open boat upon the sea 
To go the instant on the main. 
And never under penalty 
Of death to touch the shore again. 3° 
A troop of bearded buckskinn'd men 
Bore him hard-hurried to the wave, 
Placed him swift in the boat; and then 
Swift pushing to the bristling sea. 
His daughter rush'd down suddenly. 
Threw him his bow, leapt from the shore 
Into the boat beside the brave, 
And sat her down and seized the oar. 
And never questioned, made replies. 
Or moved her lips, or raised her eyes. 4" 

His breast was like a gate of brass, 
His brow was hke a gather'd storm; 
There is no chisell'd stone that has 
So stately and complete a form 
In sinew, arm, and every part, 
In all the galleries of art. 

the ship was driving helpless in a storm toward 
the rocks. The king died a prisoner, but his 
son escaped and never again surrendered. ... 
A daughter of the late Senator Nesmith sends 
me a picture taken in 1896 of the king's devoted 
datighter, Princess Mary, who followed his for- 
tunes in all his battles. ... I remember 
her as an old woman full forty years ago, tall 
as a soldier, and most terrible in council. I 
have tried to picture her and her people (in 
Parts I and II) as I once saw them in a mid- 
night camp before the breaking out of the war; 
also their actions and utterances so like some 
of the old Israelite councils and prophecies, 
(Author's Note.) 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER 



557 



Gray, bronzed, and naked to the waist, 
He stood half halting in the prow. 
With quiver bare and idle bow. 
The warm sea fondled with the shore, so 
And laid his white face to the sands. 
His daughter sat with her sad face 
Bent on the wave, with her two hands 
Held tightly to the dripping oar; 
And as she sat, her dimpled knee 
Bent lithe as wand or willow tree. 
So round and full, so rich and free. 
That no one would have ever known 
That it had either joint or bone. 

Her eyes were black, her face was 
brown, ^ 

Her breasts were bare, and there fell 

down 
Such wealth of hair, it almost hid 
The two, in its rich jetty fold — 
Which I had sometimes fain forbid, 
They were so richer, fuller far 
Than any polished bronzes are. 
And richer hued than any gold. 
On her brown arms and her brown 

hands 
Were bars of gold and golden bands. 
Rough hammer'd from the virgin ore, 7o 
So heavy, they could hold no more. 

I wonder now, I wonder'd then. 
That men who fear'd not gods nor men 
Laid no rude hands at all on her, — 
I think she had a dagger slid 
Down in her silver'd wampun belt; 
It might have been, instead of hilt, 
A flashing diamond hurry-hid 
That I beheld — I could not know 
For certain, we did hasten so; 80 

And I know now less sure than then: 
Deeds strangle memories of deeds, 
Red blossoms wither, choked with weeds. 
And years drown memories of men. 
Some things have happened since — and 

then 
This happen'd years and years ago. 

"Go, go 1" the captain cried, and smote 
With sword and boot the swaying boat, 
Until it quiver'd as at sea 
And brought the old chief to his knee. 9° 
He turn'd his face, and turning rose 
With hand raised fiercely to his foes : 
"Yes, I will go, last of my race, 
Push'd by you robbers ruthlessly 
Into the hollows of the sea, 
From this my last, last resting-place. 



Traditions of my fathers say 
A feeble few reach'd for this land, 
And we reach'd them a welcome hand 
Of old, upon another shore; io° 

Now they are strong, we weak as they. 
And they have driven us before 
Their faces, from that sea to this : 
Then marvel not if we have sped 
Sometime an arrow as we fled, 
So keener than a serpent's kiss." 

He turn'd a time unto the sun 
That lay half hidden in the sea. 
As in his hollows rock'd asleep, 
All trembled and breathed heavily; "o 
Then arch'd his arm, as you have done. 
For sharp masts piercing through the 

deep. 
No shore or kind ship met his eye. 
Or isle, or sail, or anything. 
Save white sea gulls on dipping wing, 
And mobile sea and molten sky. 

"Farewell! — push seaward, child!" he 
cried, 
And quick the paddle-strokes replied. 
Like lightning from the panther-skin. 
That bound his loins round about, 120 
He snatched a poison'd ^rrow out, 
That like a snake lay hid within. 
And twang'd his bow. The captain fell 
Prone on his face, and such a yell 
Of triumph from that savage rose 
As man may never hear again. 
He stood as standing on the main. 
The topmast main, in proud repose. 
And shook his clench'd fist at his foes. 
And call'd, and cursed them every one. 130 
He heeded not the shouts and shot 
That follow'd him, but grand and grim 
Stood up against the level sun; 
And, standing so, seem'd in his ire 
So grander than some ship on fire. 

And when the sun had left the sea, 
That laves Abrup, and Blanco laves. 
And left the land to death and me, 
The only thing that I could see 
Was, ever as the light boat lay 140 

High 'lifted on the white-back'd waves, 
•A head as gray and toss'd as they. 

We raised the dead, and from his 

hands 
Pick'd out some shells, clutched as he 

lay 
And two by two bore him away. 
And wiped his lips of blood and sattds. 



558 



AMERICAN POETRY 



We bent and scooped a shallow home, 
And laid him warm-wet in his blood, 
Just as the lifted tide a-flood 
Came charging in with mouth a- foam: 150 
And as we turn'd, the sensate thing 
Reached up, lick'd out its foamy tongue, 
Lick'd out its tongue and tasted blood : 
The white lips to the red earth clung 
An instant, and then loosening 
All hold just like a living thing. 
Drew back sad-'voiced and shuddering, 
All stained with blood, a striped flood. 



KIT CARSON'S RIDE 

Room! room to turn round in, to breathe and 

he free. 
To grow to he giant, to sail as at sea 
With the speed of the wind on a steed with his 

name 
To the wind, without pathway or route or a rein. 
Room! room to he free where the white border' d 

sea 
Blows a kiss to a brother as boundless as he; 
Where the buffalo come like a cloud on the plain. 
Pouring on like the tide of a storm driven main, 
And the lodge of the hunter to friend or to foe 
Offers rest; and unquestion'd you come or you 

go. _ . 10 

My plains of America! Seas of wild lands! 
From a land in the seas in a raiment of foam. 
That has reached to a stranger the welcome of 

home, 
I turn to you, lean to you, lift you my hands. 

London, 1871. 

Run? Run? See this flank, sir, and I do 

love him so ! 
But he 's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, 

boy, whoa. 
No, you wouldn't believe it to look at his 

eyes. 
But he 's blind, badger blind, and it 

happen'd this wise : 



"We lay in the grass and the sunburnt 

clover 
That spread on the ground like a great 

brown cover 
Northward and southward, and west and 

away 
To the Brazos, where our lodges lay, 
One broad and unbroken level of brown. 
We were waiting the curtains of night to 

come down 10 

To cover us trio and conceal our flight 
With my brown bride, won from an Indian 

town 
That lay in the rear the full ride of a 
.. night. 



"We lounged in the grass — her eyes 

were in mine. 
And her hand on my knee, and her hair 

was as wine 
In its wealth and its flood, pouring on 

and all over 
Her bosom wine red, and press'd never 

by one. 
Her touch was as warm as the tinge of 

the clover 
Burnt brown as it reach'd to the kiss of 

the sun. 
Her words they were low as the lute 

throated dove, 20 

And as laden with love as the heart when 

it beats 
In its hot, eager answer to earliest love. 
Or the bee hurried home by its burthen 

of sweets. 

"We lay low in the grass on the broad 

plain levels. 
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown 

bride ; 
'Forty full miles if a foot to ride! 
Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
Of red Comanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun 

go down 
Soon, very soon,' muttered bearded old 

Revels 30 

As he peer'd at the sun, lying low on his 

back. 
Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerk'd 

at his steed 
And he sprang to his feet, and to me, to 

my bride 
While his eyes were like flame, his face 

like a shroud. 
His form like a king, and his beard like 

a cloud. 
And his voice loud and shrill, as both 

trumpet and reed — 
'Pull, pull in your lassoes, and bridle to 

steed. 
And speed you if ever for life you would 

speed. 
Aye, ride for your lives, for your lives 

you must ride ! 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire. 
And the feet of wild horses hard flying 

before 41 

I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore. 
While the buffalo come like a surge of 

the sea. 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on 

us three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in 

his ire,' 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER 



559 



"We drew in the lassoes, seized saddle 

and rein, 
Threw them on, cinched them on, cinched 

them over again, 
And again drew the girth ; and sprung we 

to horse, 
With head to the Brazos, with a sound 

in the air, 
Like the surge of a sea, with a flash in 

the eye, so 

From that red wall of flame reaching up 

to the sky; 
A red wall of flame and a black rolling 

sea 
Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweep- 

" ing free 
And afar from the desert blown hollow 

and hoarse. 

"Not a word, not a wail from a lip was 

let fall. 
We broke not a whisper, we breathed 

not a prayer. 
There was work to be done, there was 

death in the air. 
And the chance was as one to a thousand 

for all. 

Twenty miles! . . . thirty miles! . . . 

a dim distant speck . . . 
Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos 

in sight! ^ 

And I rose in my seat with a shout of 

delight. 
I stood in my stirrup and look'd to my 

right — 
But Revels was gone; I glanced by my 

shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his 

head drooping 
Hard down on his breast, and his naked 

breast stooping 
Low down to the mane, as so swifter and 

bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed 

fire. 
He rode neck to neck with a buffalo bull, 
That made the earth shake where he came 

in his course, 
The monarch of millions, with shaggy 

mane full 70 

Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with 

desire 
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings 

hoarse. 
His keen, crooked horns, through the 

storm of his mane, 
Like black lances lifted and lifted again; 



And I looked but this once, for the fire 

licked through. 
And Revels was gone, as we rode two and 

two. 

"I look'd to my left then — and nose, 

neck, and shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 

thighs. 
And up through the black blowing veil of 

her hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvellous 

eyes, 80 

With a longing and love yet a look of 

despair 
And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke 

fold her, 
And flames leaping far for her glorious 

hair. 
Her sinking horse falter'd, plunged, fell, 

and was gone 
As I reach'd through the flame and I bore 

her still on. 
On! into the Brazos, she, Pache, and I — 
Poor, burnt, blinded Pache. I love him. 

That 's why.i 

Oxford Magasine? 1871? 



ENGLAND 

Thou, mother of brave men, of nations ! 

Thou, 
The white-browed Queen of bold white- 
bearded Sea ! 
Thou wert of old ever the same as now. 
So strong, so weak, so tame, so fierce, so 

bound, so free, 
A contradiction and a mystery; 
Serene, yet passionate, in ways thine 

own. 
Thy brave ships wind and weave earth's 

destiny. 
The zones of earth, aye, thou hast set and 

sown 
All seas in bed of blossom'd sail, as some 

great garden blown. 

1871? 

^ ". . . I then told Browning I had an order 
— it was my first — for a poem from the Oxford 
Magasine, and would like to borrow the measure 
and spirit of his 'Good News' for a prairie fire 
on the plains, driving Buffalo and all other life 
before it into a river. 'Why not borrow from 
Virgil, as I did? He is as rich as one of your 
gold mines, while I am but a poor scribe.' And 
this was my first of inner London." {Author's 
Note.) 



560 



AMERICAN POETRY 



FROM A SONG OF THE SOUTHS 
Part II, x. Dawn 

'T was morn, and yet it was not morn; 
'T was morn in heaven, not on earth : 
A star was singing of a birth, — 
Just saying that a day was born. 

The marsh hard by that bound the 
lake, — 
The great stork sea-lake, Pontchartrain, 
Shut off from sultry Cuban main, — 
Drew up its legs, as half awake: 

Drew long, thin legs, stork-legs that 

steep 

In slime where alligators creep, — ^° 

Drew long, green legs that stir the grass, 

As when the lost, lorn night winds pass. 

Then from the marsh came croakings 

low; 
Then louder croaked some sea - marsh 

beast; 
Then, far away against the east, 
God's rose of morn began to grow. 

From out the marsh against that east, 
A ghostly moss-swept cypress stood; 
With ragged arms, above the wood 
It rose, a God- forsaken beast. ^ 

It seemed so frightened where it rose! 
The moss-hung thing, it seemed to wave 
The worn-out garments of a grave, — 
To wave and wave its old grave-clothes. 

Close by, a cow rose up and lowed 
I<"rom out a palm-thatched milking-shed ; 
A black boy on the river road 
Fled sudden, as the night had fied : 

A nude black boy, — a bit of night 
That had been broken off and lost 3° 

From flying night, the time it crossed 
The soundless river in its flight : 

A bit of darkness, following 
The sable night on sable wing, — 
A bit of darkness, dumb with fear, 
Because that nameless tomb was near. 

'^The "Song of the South," as published in 
the_ "Complete Poems" of 1904, is the fifth 
revision of a poem on the Mississippi River, 
originally written in 1876. It is a narrative in 
1346 lines in two parts, from which Part II, x, 
is selected as an independent lyric. 



Then holy bells came pealing out; 
Then steamboats blew, then horses 

neighed ; 
Then smoke from hamlets round about 
Crept out, as if no more afraid. 4o 

Then shrill cocks here, and shrill cocks 
there. 
Stretched glossy necks and filled the air ; — 
How many cocks it takes to make 
A country morning well awake ! 

Then many boughs, with many birds, — 
Young boughs in green, old boughs in 

gray; 
These birds had very much to say, 
In their soft, sweet, familiar words. 

And all seemed sudden glad; the gloom 
Forgot the church, forgot the tomb; so 
And yet, like monks with cross and bead, 
The myrtles leaned to read and read. 

And oh, the fragrance of the sod! 
And oh, the perfume of the air! 
The sweetness, sweetness everywhere, 
That rose like incense up to God! 

I like a cow's breath in sweet spring; 
I like the breath of babes new-born; 
A maid's breath is a pleasant thing, — 
But oh, the breath of sudden morn ! 6° 

Of sudden morn, when every pore 
Of Mother Earth is pulsing fast 
With hfe, and life seems spilling o'er 
With love, with love too sweet to last : 

Of sudden morn beneath the sun. 
By God's great river wrapped in gray. 
That for a space forgets to run. 
And hides his face, as if to pray. 

1876. 

QUESTION? 

In the days when my mother, the Earth, 

was young, 
And you all were not, nor the likeness of 

you, 
She walk'd in her maidenly prime among 
The moonlit stars in the boundless blue. 

Then the great sun lifted his shining 

shield, 
And he flash'd his sword as the soldiers 

do. 
And he moved like a king full over the 

field, 
And he look'd, and he loved her brave 

and true. 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER 



561 



And looking afar from the ultimate rim, 
As he lay at rest in a reach of light, lo 
He beheld her walking alone at night, 
When the buttercup stars in their beauty 



So he rose up flush'd in his love, and 

he ran. 
And he reach'd his arms, and around her 

waist 
He wound them strong like a love-struck 

man. 
And he kiss'd and embraced her, brave 

and chaste. 

So he nursed his love like a babe at 

its birth. 
And he warmed in his love as the long 

years ran, 
Then embraced her again, and sweet 

mother Earth 
Was a mother indeed, and her child was 

man. 20 

The sun is the sire, the mother is earth ! 
What more do you know? What more 

do I need? 
The one he begot, and the one gave birth, 
And I love them both, and let laugh at 

your creed. 

And who shall say I am all unwise 
In my great, warm faith? Time answers 

us not : 
The quick fool questions; but who re- 
plies? 
The wise man hesitates, hushed in thought. 



L CROSSING THE PLAINS 

What great yoked brutes with briskets 

low, 
With wrinkled necks like buffalo, 
With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes. 
That turn'd so slow and sad to you. 
That shone like love's eyes soft with tears. 
That seem'd to plead, and make replies, 
The while they bow'd their necks and 

drew 
The creaking load; and looked at you. 
Their sable briskets swept the ground, 
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. 1° 

Two sullen bullocks led the line, 
Their great eyes shining bright like wine; 
Two sullen captive kings were they. 
That had in time held- herds at bay, 



And even now they crush'd the sod 
With stoHd sense of majesty. 
And stately stepp'd and stately trod, 
As if 't were something still to be 
Kings even in captivity. 



WESTWARD HO! 

What strength ! what strife ! what rude 

unrest ! 
What shocks ! what half-shaped armies 

met! 
A mighty nation moving west, 
With all it's steely sinews set 
Against the living forests. Hear 
The shouts, the shots of pioneer. 
The rended forests, rolling wheels, 
As if some half-check'd army reels. 
Recoils, redoubles, comes again, 
Loud sounding like a hurricane. i" 

O bearded, stalwart, westmost men, 
So tower-like, so Gothic built! 
A kingdom won without the guilt 
Of studied battle, that hath been 
Your blood's inheritance. . . . Your 

heirs 
Know not your tombs : The great plough- 
shares 
Cleave softly through the mellow loam 
Where you have made eternal home, 
And set no sign. Your epitaphs 
Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs 20 
While through the green ways wander- 
ing 
Beside her love, slow gathering 
White starry-hearted May-time blooms 
Above your lowly level'd tombs; 
And then below the spotted sky 
She stops, she- leans, she wonders why 
The ground is heaved and broken so, 
And why^ the grasses darker grow 
And droo'p and trail like wounded wing. 

Yea, Time, the grand old harvester, 30 
Has gathered you from wood and 

plain, 
We call to you again, again; 
The rush and rumble of the car 
Comes back in answer. Deep and wide 
The wheels of progress have passed 

on; 
The silent pioneer is gone. 
His ghost is moving down the trees, 
And now we push the memories 
Of bluff, bold men who dared and died 
In foremost battle, quite aside 40 



>62 



AMERICAN POETRY 



THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER 

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast ; 
Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro 
By peaks pre-eminent in snow ; 
A sounding river rushes past. 
So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. 

A lone lodge tops the windy hill; 
A tawny maiden, mute and still. 
Stands waiting at the river's brink, 
As eager, fond as you can think. 
A mighty chief is at her feet : i" 

She does not heed him wooing so — 
She hears the dark, wild waters tlow; 
She waits her lover, tall and fleet. 
From out far beaming hills of snow. 

He comes ! The grim chief springs in 

air — 
His brawny arm. his blade is bare. 
She turns; she lifts her round, brown 

hand ; 
She looks him fairly in the face ; 
She moves her foot a little pace 
And says, with calmness and command. -"^^ 
"There 's blood enough in this lorn land. 

"But see ! a test of strength and skill. 
Of courage and fierce fortitude; 
To breast and wrestle with the rude 
And storm-born waters, now I will 
Bestow you both. 

" Stand either side! 

And you, my burly chief. I know 
Would choose my right. Now peer you 

low 
Across the waters wild and wide. 3^ 

See ! leaning so this morn I spied 
Red berries dip yon farther side. 

"See. dipping, dripping in the stream ! 
Twin boughs of autumn berrries gleam ! 

"Now this, brave men. shall be the test : 
Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth 
To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. 
Plunge in ! and he who hears him best. 
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land 
The first, shall have both heart and 
hand." 40 

Two tawny men. tall, brown and thewed 
Like antique bronzes rarely seen, 
Shot up like flame. 

She stood betw-een 
Like fixed, impassive fortitude. 



Then one threw robes with sullen air. 
And woimd red fox-tails in his hair ; 
But one with face of proud delight 
Entwined a wing of snowy white. 

She stood between. She sudden gave 
The sign and each impatient brave 5» 

Shot sudden in ttie sounding wave : 
The startled waters gurgled round ; 
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound. 

Oh. then uprose the love that slept ! 
Oh, then her heart beat loud and strong ! 
Oh. then the proud love pent up long 
Broke forth in wail upon the air! 
And leaning there she sobbed and wept. 
With dark face mantled in her hair. ^ 

She sudden lifts her leaning brow. 
He nears the shore, her love ! and now 
The foam flies spouting from the face 
That laughing lifts from out the race. 

The race is won, the work is done! 
She sees the kingly crest of snow; 
She knows her tall, brown Idaho. 
She cries aloud, she laughing cries. 
And tears are streatuing from her eyes : 
"O splendid, kingly Idaho! "° 

I kiss thy lifted crest of snow. 

"My tall and tawny king, come back ! 
Come swift. O sweet! why falter so? 
Come ! Come ! \Miat thing has crossed 

your track? 
I kneel to all the gods I know. . . . 
Great Spirit, what is this I dread? 
Why, there is blood! the wave is red! 
That wrinkled chief, outstripped in race. 
Dives down, and, hiding from my face. 
Strikes underneath. ^ 

" He rises now ! 

Now plucks my hero's berry bough. 
And lifts aloft his red fox head. 
And signals he has won for me. . . . 
Hist, softlv ! Let him come and see. 



"Oh, come ! my white-crowned hero, 
come ! 
Oh, come ! and I will be your bride. 
Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. 
Come back to me ! my lips are dumb. 
My hands are helpless with despair; 90 
The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair. 
Is reaching to the ruddy tide. 
That you may clutch it w-hen you come 



I 



"JOA<j(:i;:" mttxer 



563 



"How fHow he, ]/u{f(d*. ^rdf\c th", y/av:' 

yi'j )jrhv<',, bra'/c kinj<! U'; ri''/,, ' --,';c! 
Uol'j fa>,t, my hero! Strik': for rn*;. 
Strike -fAr'AiuM this way! Strike firm and 

ffolrj fa»t y/ur strength. It i» not long — 
O God be »mk«( He »inks! U gone! "* 

t "And did I dream and do T wake? 

: Or did J v/ake and now but drearn? 
And what ii this cray/k from the »,tream? 
<^-»h, here i--, !</^me mad, mad mi'-,t^kc! 
What, you! the red fox at my U-/d'f 
You first, and faihnK from the ra^;e. 
What! You have hrouj^ht mc hcrrkfi red? 
What! You have l/rr^mght your bride a 

wreath ? 
You hly red fox with wrinkled face — '^''J 
That blade ha'^ blood betweert yrnjr teeth ! 

"Lie low! lie lov/ ! whil/; I lean o'er 
And dutch your red blade to the 

fthore . . . 
i fa ! ha ! Sf), through your coward tbr^/at 
The full day shines I . . . Two fox-tails 

float 
Jar dov/n, and I IrtJt mock thereat 

liut what j» this? What sni-nvy crest 
^. rnli* out the willows of the west, 
All dripping from his streaminj^ hair, 
"I is he! My hero brave and fair! 
His fa/;e is liftinj^ to my face, 
And who shall now di--,pute the race? 

"The j/ray hawks pass, O love! and 
doves 
c/t yonder lodj^e shall coo their loves. 
My hands shall h<;al your wounded In-casts, 
And in y^^ tall lodge two shall rest" 



J; 7 'J HE PAOFIC OCEAN 

M&ra room and kingly silence keep 
(^'ompan ion ship in state austere. 
The di5<nity of death is here, 
The large, lone vastness of the deep. 
Here toil has pitched his camp t^^ rest, 
The west is banked against the west. 

f Alx»ve yon gleaming skies of gold 
One lone imperial peak is seem ; 
While gathered at his feet in green 
Ten thousand foresters are told. 
And all so still ! so still the air 
That duty drops the web of care. 



120 



j'/'n'jeath the sun»>d's golden sheaves 
The awful d%p v/alkt with the deeji, 
Where silerd sea doves slip and sweep, 
And </)mm*:r<j(; kr^;s her loom and 

weaves. 
The dead r<-A m<rr\ rtUxv, y> rest; 
Their '^\(yfX-f. illume my lurid West. 



AT OUR GOLDEN GATE 

At our gate he groaneth, groan<:rth, 
Chafes as chained, and chafes all <\^'j; 
Aj leashed greyhound moaneth, nv/aneth. 
When the nunttr keeps awiiy, 
Mfrti have seen him steal in lowly. 
Lick the island's feet and fac<;. 
Lift a cold wet nose up slowly, 
Then turn empty to his place; 
Em\fiy, idle, hungered, waiting 
i'or s^..me hero, flauntless-souled, "> 

Glory-loving, pleasure-hating. 
Minted in God's ancient mold. 

What ship yonder stealing, stealing, 
I-'irate-like, as if ashamed? 
i>lack men, bro//n m«^:ti, red, revealing — 
N<^>t one white man to l><; named! 
What flag yonder, proud, defiant. 
Topmast, saucy, and sea blown? 
Tall ships lordly and reliant — 
All flags yonder save our own ! ^o 

.Surged atop yon balf-v/orld water 
<'>nc<; a tuneful tall ship ran; 
Kan the fiU^rm king, t^^^o, and caught her, 
Caught and laughed as laughs a man : 

Laughed and held her, and so holden, 
Holden high, foam-crest and free 
As famed harper, hoar and olden, 
Held his great harp on his knee. 
Then his fingers wildly flinging 
Through chords, ropes — such symphony 
As if some wild Wagner singing — 3» 
Some wild Wagner of the sea! 
Sang he of such poor rx^wed w':akling3, 
Ojwed, weak landsmfm such as we. 
While ten thousand sUjfitd sea kings 
Foam-white, storm-blown, sat the sea. 

Oh, for England's old sea thunder! 
Oh, for England's Ixdd s':a men, 
Whfm we banged her over, under 
And she banged us back again ! 4o 

fietter old time strife and stres3<;s. 
Cloud top't towers, walls, distrust; 
lUdU-s wars than lazinesses, 
iietter loot than v/ine and lust! 



564 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Give us seas? Why, we have oceans! 
Give us manhood, sea men, men ! 
Give us deeds, loves, hates, emotions ! 
Else give back these seas again. 



COLUMBUS 1 

Behind him lay the great Azores, 
Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores; 
Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said : "Now must we 

pray. 
For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave AdmVl, speak; what shall I say?" 
"Why, say : 'Sail on ! sail on ! and on !' " 

"My men grow mutinous day by day ; 
My men grow ghastly wan and weak." lo 
The stout mate thought of home; a spray 
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, 
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" 
"Why, you shall say at break of day : 
'Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on !' " 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might 

blow. 
Until at last the blanched mate said : 
"Why, now not even God would know 
Should I and all my men fall dead. 20 
These very winds forget their way. 
For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and 

say — " 
He said : "Sail on ! sail on ! and on !" 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake 

the mate: 
"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. 
He curls his Up, he lies in wait. 
With Hfted teeth, as if to bite! 
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word : 
What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leapt hke a leaping sword : 3' 
"Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on !" 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck. 
And peered through darkness. Ah, that 

night 
Of all dark nights! And then a speck — 
It grew, .a starlit flag unfurled! 
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 
Its grandest lesson : "On ! sail on !" 

■^ Compare with Sidney Lanier's Sonnets on 
Columbus from the Psalm of the West, p. 458 ft. 



SONGS FROM SAPPHO AND 
PHAON 

Song First 

"In the beginning God — " 

When God's spirit moved upon 
The water's face, and vapors curled 
Like incense o'er deep-cradled dawn 
That dared not yet the mobile world, — 

When deep-cradled dawn uprose. 
Ere the baby stars were born. 
When the end of all repose 
Came with that first wondrous morn, — 

In the morning of the world 
When light lept, — a giant born : 'o 

O that morning of the world. 
That vast, first, tumultuous morn ! 

Song Second 

"And God said, 'Let there he light.'" 

Rise up ! How brief this little day ! 
We can but kindle some dim light 
Here in the darkened, wooded way 
Before the gathering of night. 
Come, let us kindle it. The dawn 
Shall find us tenting further on. 
Come, let us kindle ere we go — 
We know not where; but this we know. 
Night Cometh on, and man needs light. 
Come ! camp-fire embers, ere we grope 1° 
Yon gray archway of night. 

Life is so brief, so very brief, 
So rounded in, we scarce can see 
The fruitage grown about the leaf 
And fohage of a single tree 
In all God's garden; yet we know 
That goodly fruits must grow and grow 
Beyond our vision. We but stand 
In some deep hollow of God's hand. 
Hear some sweet bird its little day, 20 
See cloud and sun a season pass. 
And then, sweet friend, away ! 

Clouds pass, they come again; and we, 
Are we, then, less than these to God? 
Oh, for the stout faith of a tree 
That drops its small seeds to the sod. 
Safe in the hollow of God's hand, 
And knows that perish from the land 
It shall not ! Yea, this much we know, 
That each, as best it can, shall grow 3° 
As God has fashioned, fair or plain, 
To do its best, or cloud or sun 
Or in His still, small rain. 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER 



565 



Oh, good to see is faith in God ! 
But better far is faith in good : 
The one seems but a sign, a nod. 
The one seems God's own flesh and blood. 
How many names of God are sung ! 
But god is good in every tongue. 
And this the light, the holy light 4° 

That leads through night and night and 

night ; 
Thro' nights named Death, that lie be- 
tween 
The days named Life, the ladder round, 
Unto the Infinite Unseen. 

Song Third 

"And God saw the light that it was good." 

I heard a tale long, long ago. 
Where I had gone apart to pray 
By Shasta's pyramid of snow, 
That touches me unto this day. 
I know the fashion is to say 
An Arab tale, an Orient lay; 
But when the grocer rings my gold 
On counter, flung from greasy hold. 
He cares not from Arcadian vale 
It comes, or savage mountain chine; — lo 
But this the Shastan tale : 

Once in the olden, golden days. 
When men and beasts companioned, when 
All went in peace about their ways 
Nor God had hid His face from men 
Because man slew his brother beast 
To make his most unholy feast, 
A gray coyote, monkish cowled, 
Upraised his face and wailed and howled 
The while he made his patient round; 20 
For lo ! the red men all lay dead, 
Stark, frozen on the ground. 

The very dogs had fled the storm, 
A mother with her long, meshed hair 
Bound tight about her baby's form. 
Lay frozen, all her body bare. 
Her last shred held her babe in place; 
Her last breath warmed her baby's face. 
Then, as the good monk brushed the snow 
Aside from mother loving so, 3° 

He heard God from the mount above 
Speak through the clouds and loving say: 
"Yea, all is dead but Love." 

Now take up Love and cherish her, 
And seek the white man with all speed. 
And keep Love warm within thy fur; 
For oh, he needeth love indeed. 



Take all and give him freely, all 
Of love you find, or great or small; 
For he is very poor in this, 4° 

So poor he scarce knows what love is." 
The gray monk raised Love in his paws, 
And sped, a ghostly streak of gray, 
To where the white man was. 

But man uprose, enraged to see 
A gaunt wolf track his new-hewn town. 
He called his dogs, and angrily 
He brought his flashing rifle down. 
Then God said : "On his hearthstone lay 
The seed of Love, and come away ; 5° 

The seed of Love, 't is needed so. 
And pray that it may grow and grow." 
And so the gray monk crept at night 
And laid Love down, as God had said, 
A faint and feeble light. 

So faint indeed, the cold heartstone 
It seemed would chill starved Love to 

death ; 
And so the monk gave all his own 
And crouched and fanned it with his 

breath 
Until a red cock crowed for day. 60 

Then God said : "Rise up, come away." 
The beast obeyed, but yet looked back 
All morn along his lonely track; 
For he had left his all in all. 
His own Love, for that famished Love 
Seemed so exceeding small. 

And God said : "Look not back again." 
But ever, where a campfire burned, 
And he beheld strong, burly men 
At meat, he sat him down and turned 7° 
His face to wail and wail and mourn 
The Love laid on that cold hearthstone. 
Then God was angered, and God said: 
"Be thou a beggar then; thy head 
Hath been a fool, but thy swift feet, 
Because they bore sweet Love, shall be 
The fleetest of all fleet." 

And ever still about the camp, 
By chine or plain, in heat or hail, 
A homeless, hungry, hounded tramp, 80 
The gaunt coyote keeps his wail. 
And ever as he wails he turns 
His head, looks back and yearns and 

yearns 
For lost Love, laid that wintry day 
To warm a hearthstone far away. 
Poor loveless, homeless beast, I keep 
Your lost Love warm for you, and, too, 
A canon cool and deep. 



566 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Song Fourth 

"And God saw everything that He had 
made, and, behold, it was very good." 

Says Plato, "Once in Greece the Gods 
Plucked grapes, pressed wine, and revelled 

deep 
And drowsed below their poppy-pods, 
And lay full length the hills asleep. 
Then, waking, one said, 'Overmuch 
We toil; come, let us rise and touch 
Red clay, and shape it into man, 
That he may build as we shall plan!' 
And so they shaped man all complete, 
Self-procreative, satisfied; ^° 

Two heads, four hands, four feet. 



"And then the Gods slept, heedless, 
long ; 
But waking suddenly one day, 
They heard their valley ring with song 
And saw man revelling as they. 
Enraged, they drew their swords and said, 
'Bow down, bend down !* — but man replied 
Defiant, fearless everywhere 
His four fists shaking in the air. 
The Gods descending, cleft in twain 20 
Each man; then wiped their swords on 

grapes ; 
And let confusion reign. 



"And such confusion ! each half ran, 
Ran here, ran there ; or weep or laugh 
Or what he would, each helpless man 
Ran hunting for his other half. 
And from that day, thenceforth the grapes 
Bore blood and flame, and restless shapes 
Of hewn-down, helpless halves of men, 
Ran searching ever ; crazed as when 3° 
First hewn in twain, they grasped, let go. 
Then grasped again; but rarely found 
That lost half once loved so." 



Now, right or wrong, or false or true, 
'T is Plato's tale of bitter sweet; 
But I know well, and well know you 
The quest keeps on at fever heat. 
Let Love, then, wisely sit and wait ! 
The world is round ; sit by the gate. 
Like blind Belisarius : being blind, 4° 

Love should not search ; Love shall not 

find 
By searching. Brass is so like gold. 
How shall this blind Love know new brass 
From pure, soft gold of old? 



ADIOS 

And here, sweet friend, I go my way 
Alone, as I have lived, alone 
A little way, a brief half day. 
And then, the restful, white milestone. 
I know not surely where or when. 
But surely know we meet again, 
As surely know we love anew 
In grander life the good and true; 
Shall breathe together there as here 
Some clearer, sweeter atmosphere, "> 
Shall walk high, wider ways above 
Our petty selves, shall learn to lead 
Man up and up in thought and deed. . . . 
Dear soul, sweet friend, I love you, love 
The love that led you patient through 
This wilderness of words in quest 
Of strange wild flowers from my West; 
But here, dear heart, Adieu. 



Yon great chained sea-ship chafes to be 
Once more unleashed without the gate 20 
On proud Balboa's boundless sea. 
And I chafe with her, for I hate 
The rust of rest, the dull repose, 
The fawning breath of changeful foes, 
Whose blame through all my bitter days 
I have endured ; spare me their praise ! 
I go, full-hearted, grateful, glad 
Of strength from dear good mother earth; 
And yet I am full sad. 



Could I but teach man to believe — 3° 
Could I but make small men to grow. 
To break frail spider-webs that weave 
About their thews and bind them low; 
Could I but sing one song and slay 
Grim Doubt; I then could go my way 
In tranquil silence, glad, serene. 
And, satisfied, from off the scene. 
But ah, this disbelief, this doubt. 
This doubt of God, this doubt of good, — 
The damned spot will not out. 40 



Grew once a rose within my room 
Of perfect hue, of perfect health; 
Of such perfection and perfume. 
It filled my poor house with its wealth. 
Then came the pessimist who knew 
Not good or grace, but overthrew 
My rose, and in the broken pot 
Nosed fast for slugs within the rot. 
He found, found with exulting pride, 
Deep in the loam, a worm, a slug; 5° 

The while my rose-tree died. 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER 



567 



IV 

Yea, ye did hurt me. Joy in this. 
Receive great joy at last to know, 
Since pain is all your world of bliss. 
That ye did, hounding, hurt me so ! 
But mute as bayed stag on his steeps, 
Who keeps his haunts, and, bleeding keeps 
His breast turned, watching where they 

come. 
Kept I, defiant, and as dumb. 
But comfort ye; your work was done 60 
With devil's cunning, like the mole 
That lets the life-sap run. 



VII 

The old desire of far, new lands, 
The thirst to learn, to still front storms, 
To bend my knees, to lift my hands 
To God in all his thousand forms — 
These lure and lead as pleasantly 
As old songs sung anew at sea. 9° 

But, storied lands or stormy deeps, 
I will my ashes to my steeps — 
I will my steeps, green cross, red rose, 
To those who love the beautiful — 
Come, learn to be of those. 



And my revenge? My vengeance is 
That I have made one rugged spot 
The fairer; that I fashioned this 
While envy, hate, and falsehood shot 
Rank poison; that I leave to those 
Who shot, for arrows, each a rose; 
Aye, labyrinths of rose and wold, 
Acacias garmented in gold, 70 

Bright fountains, where birds come to 

drink ; 
Such clouds of cunning, pretty birds, 
And tame as you can think. 



VIII 

The sun has draped his couch in red ; 
Night takes the warm world in his arms 
And turns to their espousal bed 
To breathe the perfume of her charms : 
The great sea calls, and I descend 100 
As to the call of some strong friend. 
I go, not hating any man 
But loving earth as any can 
A lover suckled at her breast 
Of beauty from his babyhood, 
And roam to truly rest. 



VI 

Come here when I am far away. 
Fond lovers of this lovely land. 
And sit quite still and do not say. 
Turn right or left, or lift a hand, 
But sit beneath my kindly trees 
And gaze far out yon sea of seas : — 
These trees, these very stones, could tell 
How long I loved them, and how well — 81 
And maybe I shall come and sit 
Beside you; sit so silently 
You will not reck of it. 



God is not far; man is not far 

From Heaven's porch, where paeans roll. 

Man shall yet speak from star to star 

In silent language of the soul; "o 

Yon star-strewn skies be but a town, 

With angels passing up and down. 

"I_ leave my peace with you." Lo ! these 

His seven wounds, the Pleiades 

Fierce Heaven's porch. But, resting there. 

The new moon rocks the Child Christ in 

Her silver rocking chair. 



RICHARD HOVEY 

(1864-1900) 



COMRADES 

Comrades, pour the wine to-night, 

For the parting is with dawn. 
Oh, the clink of cups together, 
With the daylight coming on! 
Greet the morn 
With a double horn, 
When strong men drink together! 

Comrades, gird your swords to-night, 

For the battle is with dawn. 
Oh, the clash of shields together, lo 

With the triumph coming on! 
Greet the foe 
And lay him low, 
When strong men fight together. 

Comrades, watch the tides to-night, 

For the sailing is with dawn. 
Oh, to face the spray together. 
With the tempest coming on ! 
Greet the Sea 

With a shout of glee, 20 

When strong men roam together. 

Comrades, give a cheer to-night, 

For the dying is with dawn. 
Oh, to meet the stars together. 
With the silence coming on ! 
Greet the end 
As a friend a friend, 
When strong men die together. 

From Ode read at 60th convention of Psi 
Upsilon fraternity. May 18, 1893. 



THE WANDER LOVERS 

Down the world with Marna! 
That 's the life for me! 
Wandering with the wandering wind, 
Vagabond and unconfined ! 
Roving with the roving rain 
Its unboundaried domain ! 
Kith and kin of wander-kind, 
Children of the sea ! 

Petrels of the sea-drift! 
Swallows of the lea! 



Arabs of the whole wide girth 
Of the wind-encircled earth! 
In all climes we pitch our tents, 
Cronies of the elements. 
With the secret lords of birth 
Intimate and free. 

All the seaboard knows us 
From Fundy to the Keys; 
Every bend and every creek 
Of abundant Chesapeake; 
Ardise hills and Newport coves 
And the far-ofif orange groves, 
Where Floridian oceans break, 
Tropic tiger seas. 

Down the world with Marna, 
Tarrying there and here ! 
Just as much at home in Spain 
As in Tangier or Touraine ! 
Shakespeare's Avon knows us well. 
And the crags of Neufchatel; 
And the ancient Nile is fain 
Of our coming near. 

Down the world with Marna, 
Daughter of the air! 
Marna of the subtle grace. 
And the vision in her face ! 
Moving in the measures trod 
By the angels before God ! 
With her sky-blue eyes amaze 
And her sea-blue hair ! 

Marna with the trees' life 
In her veins a-stir ! 
Marna of the aspen heart 
Where the sudden quivers start! 
Quick-responsive, subtle, wild ! 
Artless as an artless child, 
Spite of all her reach of art! 
Oh, to roam with her ! 

Marna with the wind's will. 
Daughter of the sea ! 
Marna of the quick disdain, 
Starting at the dream of stain! 
At a smile with love aglow, 
At a frown a statued woe. 
Standing pinnacled in pain 
Till a kiss sets free ! 



30 



40 



so 



568 



RICHARD HOVEY 



569 



Down the world with Marna, 
Daughter of the fire ! 
Marna of the deathless hope, 
Still alert to win new scope 
Where the wings of life may spread 
For the flight unhazarded ! 
Dreaming of the speech to cope 
With the heart's desire ! 

Marna of the far quest 
After the divine! 
Striving ever for some goal 
Past the blunder-god's control ! 
Dreaming of potential years 
When no day shall dawn in fears ! 
That 's the Marna of my soul, 
Wander-bride of mine! 



60 



1893. 



SPRING 



I said in my heart, "I am sick of four 

walls and a ceihng. 
I have need of the sky. 
I have business with the grass. 
I will up and get me away where the hawk 

is wheeling. 
Lone and high. 
And the slow clouds go by. 
I will get me away to the waters that 

glass 
The clouds as they pass. 
To the waters that lie 
Like the heart of a maiden aware of a 

doom drawing nigh 
And dumb for sorcery of inpending joy. 
I will get me away to the woods. " 

Spring, like a huntsman's boy, 
Halloos along the hillsides and unhoods 
The falcon in my will. 
The dogwood calls me, and the sudden 

thrill 
That breaks in apple blooms down country 

roads 
Plucks me by the sleeve and nudges me 

away. 
The sap is in the boles to-day. 
And in my veins a pulse that yearns and 

goads." 

When I got to the woods, I found out 20 
What the Spring was about. 
With her gypsy ways 
And her heart ablaze. 
Coming up from the south 
With the wander-lure of witch songs in 
her mouth. 



For the sky 

Stirred and grew soft and swimming as 

a lover's eye 
As she went by; 
The air 

Made love to all it touched, as if its care 
Were all to spare ; 3' 

The earth 

Prickled with lust of birth; 
The woodland streams 
Babbled the incoherence of the thousand 

dreams 
Wherewith the warm sun teems. 
And out of the frieze 
Of the chestnut trees 
I heard 
The sky and the fields and the thicket 

find voice in a bird. 4° 

The goldenwing — hark ! 
How he drives his song 
Like a golden nail 
Through the hush of the air! 
I thrill to his cry in the leafage there; 
I respond to the new life mounting under 

the bark. 
I shall not be long 
To follow 
With eft and bulrush, bee and bud and 

swallow, 
On the old trail. so 

Spring in the world ! 

And all things are made new ! 

There was never a mote that whirled 

In the nebular morn. 

There was never a Isrook that purled 

When the hills were born. 

There was never a leaf uncurled — 

Not the first that grew — 

Nor a bee-flight hurled. 

Nor a bird-note skirled, ^ 

Nor a cloud-wisp swirled 

In the depth of the blue. 

More alive and afresh and impromptu, 
more thoughtless and certain and free, 

More a-shout with the glee 

Of the Unknown new-burst on the won- 
der, than here, than here. 

In the re-wrought sphere 

Of the new-born year — 

Now, now. 

When the greenlet sings on the red-bud 
bough 

Where the blossoms are whispering "I 
and thou," — 7° 

"I and thou," 

And a lass at the turn looks after her 
lad with a dawn on her brow. 

And the world is just made — now! 



570 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Spring in the heart! 

With her pinks and pearls and yellows! 

Spring, fellows, 

And we too feel the little green leaves 

a-start 
Across the bare-twigged winter of the 

mart. 
The campus is reborn in us to-day ; 
The old grip stirs our hearts with new- 
old joy; ^° 
Again bursts bonds for madcap holiday 
The eternal boy. 
For we have not come here for long 

debate 
Nor taking counsel for our household 

order, 
Howe'er we make a feint of serious 

things, — 
For all the world as in affairs of state 
A word goes out for war along the border 
To further or defeat the loves of kings. 
We put our house to rights from year to 

year, . 
But that is not the call that brings us 

here; E» 

We have come here to be glad. 

Give a rouse, then, in the Maytime 

For a life that knows no fear! 
Turn night-time into daytime 

With the sunlight of good cheer ! 
For it 's always fair weather 
When good fellows get together 
With a stein on the table and a good 
song ringing clear. 

When the wind comes up from Cuba 

And the birds are on the wing, lo" 

And our hearts are patting juba 
To the banjo of the spring, 

Then there 's no wonder whether 
The boys will get together. 
With a stein on the table and a cheer for 
everything. 

For we're all frank-and-twenty 

When the spring is in the air. 
And we've faith and hope a-plenty, 
And we've life and love to spare; 

And it 's birds of a feather "o 
When we all get together, 
With a stein on the table and a heart 
without a care. 

For we know the world is glorious 
And the goal a golden thing, 

And that God is not censorious 

When his children have their fling; 



And life slips its tether 
When the boys get together, 
With a stein on the table in the fellowship 
of spring. 

A road runs east and a road runs west i^o 
From the table where we sing; 
And the lure of the one is a roving quest, 
And the lure of the other a lotus dream. 
And the eastward road leads into the 

West 
Of the lifelong chase of the vanishing 

gleam ; 
And the westward road leads into the 

East, 
Where the spirit from striving is released, 
Where the soul like a child in God's arms 

lies 
And forgets the lure of the butterflies. 
And west is east, if you follow the trail 

to the end; '30 

And east is west, if you follow the trail 

to the end; 
And the East and the West in the spring 

of the world shall blend" 
As a man and a woman that plight 
Their troth in the warm spring night. 
And the spring for the East is the sap 

in the heart of a tree; 
And the spring for the West is the will 

in the wings of a bird; 
But the spring for the East and the West 

alike shall be 
An urge in their bones and an ache in 

their spirit, a word 
That shall knit them in one for Time's 

foison, once they have heard. 

And do I not hear 140 

The first low stirring of that greater 

spring 
Thrill in the underworld of the cosmic 

year? 
The wafture of scant violets presaging 
The roses and 'the tasselled corn to be; 
A yearning in the roots of grass and 

tree; 
A swallow in the eaves ; 
The hint of coming leaves; 
The signals of the summer coming up 

from Arcadie I 

For surely in the blind deep-buried roots 
Of all men's souls to-day 150 

A secret quiver shoots. 
An underground compulsion of new birth 
Lays hold upon the dark core of our 
being. 



RICHARD HOVEY 



571 



And unborn blossoms urge their uncom- 

prehended way 
Toward the outer day. 
Unconscious, dumb, unseeing, 
The darkness in us is aware 
Of something potent burning through the 

earth, 
Of something vital in the procreant air. 



Is it a spring, indeed? i6o 

Or do we stir and mutter in our dreams. 
Only to sleep again? 
What warrant have we that we give not 

heed 
To the caprices of an idle brain 
That in its slumber deems 
The world of slumber real as it seems? 
No,— 

Spring's not to be mistaken. 
When her first far flute notes blow 
Across the snow, ^7° 

Bird, beast, and blossom know 
That she is there. 
The very bats awaken 
That hang in clusters in Kentucky caves 
AH winter, breathless, motionless, asleep. 
And feel no alteration of the air. 
For all year long those vasty caverns 

keep. 
Winter and summer, even temperature; 
And yet when April whistles on the hill. 
Somehow, far in those subterranean 

naves, 'So 

They know, they hear her, they obey her 

will, 
And wake and circle through the vaulted 

aisles 
To find her in the open where she smiles. 
So we are somehow sure. 
By this dumb turmoil in the soul of 

man, 
Of an impending something. When the 

stress ' 
Climbs to fruition, we can only guess 
What many-seeded harvest we shall scan; 
But from one impulse, like a northering 

sun. 
The innumerable outburst is begun, 'po 
And in that common sunlight all men 

know 
A common ecstasy 
And feel themselves at one. 
The comradeship of joy and mystery 
Thrills us more vitally as we arouse, 
And we shall find our new day intimate 
Beyond the guess of any long ago. 
Doubting or elate. 
With agony or triumph on our brows, 



We shall not fail to be 200 

Better comrades than before; 
For no new sense puts forth in us but we 
Enter our fellows' lives thereby the more. 

And three great spirits with the spirit of 

man 
Go forth to do his bidding. One is free, 
And one is shackled, and the third, un- 
bound. 
Halts yet a little with a broken chain 
Of antique workmanship, not wholly 

loosed. 
That dangles and impedes his forthright 

way. 209 

Unfettered, swift, hawk-eyed, implacable, 
The wonder-worker. Science, with his 

wand, 
Subdues an aHen world to man's desires. 
And Art with wide imaginative wings 
Stands by, alert for flight, to bear his 

lord 
Into the strange heart of that alien world 
Till he shall live in it as in himself 
And know its longing as he knows his 

own. 
Behind a little, where the shadows fall. 
Lingers Religion with deep-brooding eyes, 
Serene, impenetrable, transpicuous 220 
As the all-clear and all-mysterious sky, 
Biding her time to fuse into one act 
Those other twain, man's right hand and 

his left. 

For all the bonds shall be broken and rent 

in sunder, 
And the soul of man go free 
Forth with those three 
Into the lands of wonder; 
Like some undaunted youth 
Afield in quest of truth, 
Rejoicing in the road he journeys on 230 
As much as in the hope of journey done. 
And the road runs east, and the road runs 

west. 
That his vagrant feet explore; 
And he knows no haste and he knows no 

rest. 
And every mile has a stranger zest 
Than the miles he trod before; 
And his heart leaps high in the nascent 

year 
When he sees' the purple buds appear: 
For he knows, though the great black 

frost may blight 
The hope of May in a single night, 240 
That the spring, though it shrink back 

under the bark, 
But bides its time somewhere in the dark— 



572 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Though it come not now to its blossoming, 
By the thrill in his heart he knows the 

spring ; 
And the promise it makes perchance too 

soon, 
It shall keep with its roses yet in June; 
For the ages fret not over a day, _ 
And the greater to-morrow is on its way. 

Read at the 63d convention of Psi Upsilon 
fraternity, May 7, 1896. 

AT THE END OF DAY 

There is no escape by the river, 
There is no flight left by the fen; 
We are compassed about by the shiver 
Of the night of their marching men. 
Give a cheer! 

For our hearts shall not give way. 
Here 's to a dark to-morrow. 
And here 's to a brave to-day! 

The tale of their hosts is countless, 

And the tale of ours a score; ^° 

But the palm is naught to the dauntless, 

And the cause is more and more. 

Give a cheer ! 

We may die, but not give way. 

Here 's to a silent morrow, 

And here 's to a stout to-day ! 

God has said : "Ye shall fail and perish ; 
But the thrill ye have felt to-night 
I shall keep in my heart and cherish 
When the worlds have passed in night." 
Give a cheer ! 21 

For the soul shall not give way. 
Here 's to the greater to-morrow 
That is born of a great to-day ! 

Now shame on the craven truckler 
And the puling things that mope ! 
We've a rapture for our buckler 
That outwears the wings of hope. 
Give a cheer ! 

For our joy shall not give way. 3° 

Here 's in the teeth of to-morrow 
To the glory of to-day ! 

LOVE IN THE WINDS 

When I am standing on the mountain 

crest, 
Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray, 
My love of you leaps foaming in my 

breast, 
Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their 

foray ; 



My heart bounds with the horses of the. 

sea. 
And plunges in the wild ride of the night. 
Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large 

glee 
That rides our Fate and welcomes gods to 

fight. 
Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you, 
Glad that our love is fellow to rough 

weather, — ^° 

No fretful, orchid hothoused from the 

dew. 
But hale and hardy as the highland 

heather. 
Rejoicing in the wind that stings and 

thrills. 
Comrade of ocean, playmate of the hills. 

The Atlantic Monthly, April, 1898. 



THE CALL OF THE BUGLES 

Bugles ! 

And the Great Nation thrills and leaps 

to arms ! 
Prompt, unconstrained, immediate. 
Without misgiving and without debate. 
Too calm, too strong for fury or alarms, 
The people blossoms armies and puts 

forth _ . 

The splendid summer of its noiseless 

might ; 
For the old sap of fight 
Mounts up in South and North, 
The thrill w 

That tingled in our veins at Bunker Hill 
And brought to bloom July of 'Seventy- 
Six! 
Pine and palmetto mix 
With the sequoia of the giant West 
Their ready banners, and the hosts of 

war. 
Near and far. 
Sudden as dawn. 

Innumerable as forests, hear the call 
Of the bugles. 

The battle-birds ! 20 

For not alone the brave, the fortunate, 
Who first of all 
Have put their knapsacks on — 
They are the valiant vanguard of the 

rest ! — 
Not they alone, but all our millions wait. 
Hand on sword. 
For the word 
That bids them bid the nations know U5 

sons of Fate. 



RICHARD HOVEY 



573 



Bugles ! 

And in my heart a cry, 30 

— Like a dim echo far and mournfully 
Blown back to answer them from yester- 
day ! 
A soldier's burial ! 

November hillsides and the falling leaves 
Where the Potomac broadens to the tide — 
The crisp autumnal silence and the gray 
(As of a solemn ritual 
Whose congregation glories as it grieves, 
Widowed but still a bride) — 
The long hills sloping to the wave, 4° 
And the lone bugler standing by the 
grave ! 

Taps ! 

The lonely call over the lonely wood- 
lands — 

Rising like the soaring of wings, 

Like the flight of an eagle — 

Taps ! 

They sound forever in my heart. 

From farther still, 

The echoes — still the echoes ! 

The bugles of the dead 5° 

Blowing from spectral ranks an answer- 
ing cry ! 

The ghostly roll of immaterial drums, 

Beating- reveille in the camps of dream, 

As from far meadov/s comes, 

Over the pathless hill. 

The irremeable stream. 

I hear the tread 

Of the great armies of the Past go by; 

I hear, 

Across the wide sea wash of years be- 
tween, 60 

Concord and Valley Forge shout back 
from the unseen. 

And Vicksburg give a cheer. 

Our cheer goes back to them, the valiant 

dead ! 
Laurels and roses on their graves to-day, 
Lilies and laurels over them we lay, 
And violets o'er each unforgotten head. 
Their honor still with the returning May 
Puts on its springtime in our memories, 
Nor till the last American with them lies 
Shall the young year forget to strew their 

bed. 70 

Peace to their ashes, sleep and honored 

rest! 
But we — awake ! 
Ours to remember them with deeds like 

theirs ! 
From sea to sea the insistent bugle blares. 



The drums will not be still for any sake; 
And as an eagle rears his crest, 
Defiant, from some tall pine of the north. 
And spreads his wings to fly. 
The banners of America go forth 
Against the clarion sky. 80 

Veteran and volunteer, 
They who were comrades of that shadow 

host. 
And the young brood whose veins renew 

the fires 
That burned in their great sires, 
Alike we hear 

The summons sounding clear 
From coast to coast, — 
The cry of the bugles, 
The battle-birds ! 

As some great hero men have dreamed 

might be, 90 

Sigurd or Herakles or Launcelot, 
Too strong to reckon up the gain or 

pain, 
With equal and indifferent disdain 
Keeping or keeping not 
What he may win. 
Gives to the world his victory 
And to the weak the labors he might 

spare, 
My knightly country, the world's paladin. 
Throw [s] out its pennon to the air 
To make a people free ! 100 

Rejoice, O Cuba! thy worst foe 
Is overthrown. 
The money dragon, 
The Old Serpent, 

The jailer's strong defence, laid low. 
Cast down. 
Pierced to the bone. 
Makes off to nurse his wound. 
Dragging his scaly length along the 

ground. 
Ha, ha ! he is sick, no 

He hath no stomach for the battle. 
With dull reptilian malice in his eyes. 
Spoiled of his prey, he lies, 
Blinking his glutton hatred from his 

lair. 
Plotting new outrage in his den. 
He waits to be strong again ! 
— Let him beware ! 

For we, who have smitten him once, 
Shall smite him again ! 
A passing wound for the nonce, 1^ 

But a death blow then ! 
Now with a warning stroke, 
That he coil not across our way 
When the wronged cry under the yoke 
And we may not stay; 



574 



AMERICAN POETKY 



But then in the hour of Doom 

To his irrevocable tomb 

Forever hurled, 

That the world may again have room 

For the sons of the world. 13° 

Rejoice again, O Cuba! 

Rejoice, Gomez! 

Rejoice, spirit of Maceo! 

The voice of the Lord in the drums, 

The cry of Jehovah in the bugles; 

— Let my people go free ! 

Behold, I will burst their chain! 

For my Deliverer comes, 

He whom I have chosen to be 

My Messenger on the Sea, '4° 

My Rod for the scourge of Spain! 

I have endured her too long; 

I have smitten and she has not ceased 

from wrong, — 
I have forborne 
And she has held me in scorn. 
Now therefore for her misdeeds 
Wherewith Time bleeds, 
I who smote her by the hand of Drake 
And wrenched from her the Sea, — 
I who raised up Bolivar to shake ^so 

Her captive continent free, — 
I will smite her for the third time in my 

wrath 
And naught shall remain. 
But a black char of memory in man's 

path, 
Of the power of Spain. 
We have heard the voice of the Lord ; 
Manila knows our answer, and Madrid 
Shall hear it in our cannon at her gate. 
Unless to save some remnant of her 

fate. 
Ere that assault be bid, 160 

She yield her conquered sword. 

Let her not put her trust 

In the nations that cry out 

Against us, in them that flout 

The battle of the just. 

They have made themselves drunk with 

wind; 
They have uttered a foolish cry 
In the ears of the Lord on high ; 
But they shall not save her with words 
— Nay, nor with swords — 170 

From the doom of the sin she has sinned. 

For the writ of the Powers does not 

run 
Where the flag of the Union floats. 
Fair and equal every one 
We greet with loyal throats; 



But we own no suzerain. 

Thewed with freedom, 

Mailed in destiny — 

We shall maintain 

Against the world our right, 180 

Their peer in majesty, their peer in might. 

Who now are they whose God is gain? 

Let Rothschild-ridden Europe hold her 

peace I 
Her jest is proved a lie. 
They and not we refrain 
From all things high 
At the money-changers' cry; 
They and not we have sold 
Their flags for gold; 189 

They and not we yield honor to increase. 

Honor to England, that she does us right 
At last, and, after many a valiant fight, 
Forgets her ancient grudge 
But ye, O nations, be the Lord our judge 
And yours the shame forever ! How 

shall ye 
In the unforgetting face of History 
Look without blush hereafter? Ye who 

gave 
To the Great Robber all your words of 

cheer. 
And to the Champion of the Right a 

sneer — 
What answer will ye have 200 

When affronted time demands 
The shame and fame of nations at your 

hands? 

Thou too, O France ! 

Thou, the beloved ! — 

Paul Jones and Lafayette in Paradise 

Lift not their sad, ashamed, bewildered 

eyes, 
But pass in silence with averted glance. 
Twinned with us in the hearts of all the 

free, 
O fair and dear, what have we done to 

thee? 
What have we done to thee, beloved and 

fair, 210 

That thou shouldst greet us with an alien 

stare. 
And take to thy embrace 
Her whose flag never flew but where it 

left the trace 
Of murder and of rapine on the air? 

Not only to lay low 

The decrepit foe 

—Proud, cruel, treacherous, but still brave, 

With one foot in the grave — 



RICHARD HOVEY 



575 



But' once for all 

To warn the world that, though we do not 
brawl, 220 

Our sword is ready to protect 
The weak against the brutal strong, 
Our guns are ready to exact 
Justice of them that do us wrong. 

Ay, we "remember the Maine," 

The mighty ship 

And the men thereon ! 

There is no court for nations that can 
mete 

The just reward for murder upon Spain; 

No Arbiter can put the black cap on ; 230 

No sovereign nation, shorn of sovereign- 
ship, « 

Be brought, a felon, to the judgment seat 

— Except by war ! 

Cease then this silly prate. 

That to do justice on the evil-doer 

Is vengeful and unworthy of the State. 

Remember the Maine — 

That all the world as well as Spain 

May know that God has given us the 
sword 

To punish crime and vindicate his word. 

Ye pompous prattlers, cease 241 

Your idle platitudes of peace 

When there is no peace ! 

Back to your world of books, and leave 
the world of men 

To them that have the habit of the real, 

Nor longer with a mask of fair ideal 

Hide your indifference to the facts of 
pain! 

Not against war. 
But against wrong. 

League we in mighty bonds from sea to 
sea ! 250 

Peace, when the world is free ! 
Peace, when there is no thong. 
Fetter nor bar ! 
No scourges for men's backs. 
No thumbscrews and no racks — 
For body or soul ! 
No unjust law ! 
No tyrannous control 
Of brawn or maw ! 

But, though the day be far, 260 

Till then, war ! 

Blow, bugles ! 

Over the rumbling drum and marching 

feet 
Sound your high, sweet defiance to the 

air! 
Great is war — great and fair! 



The terrors of his face are grand and 

sweet, 
And to the wise the calm of God is there. 
God clothes himself in darkness as in 

light, 
— The God of love, but still the God of 

might. 
Nor love they least 270 

Who strike with right good will 
To vanquish ill 
And fight God's battle upward from the 

beast. 

By strife as well as loving — strife, 

The Law of Life, — 

In brute and man the climbing has been 

done 
And shall be done hereafter. Since man 

was. 
No upward-climbing cause 
Without the sword has ever yet been won. 

Bugles ! 280 

The imperious bugles ! 

Still their call 

Soars like an exaltation to the sky. 

They call on men to fall, 

To die, — 

Remembered or forgotten, but a part 

Of the great beating of the Nation's 

heart ! 
A call to sacrifice ! 
A call to victory ! 
Hark, in the Empyrean 
The battle-birds! 
The bugles ! 290 

Scribner's Magazine, Sept., 1898. 
Read at Walden Post. G. A. R., May 30, 1898. 



UNMANIFEST DESTINY 

To what new fates, my country, far 
And unforeseen of foe or friend, 

Beneath what unexpected star. 
Compelled to what unchosen end. 

Across the sea that knows no beach 
The Admiral of Nations guides 

Thy blind obedient keels to reach 
The harbor where thy future rides ! 

The guns that spoke at Lexington 
Knew not that God was planning then 

The trumpet word of Jefferson " 

To bugle forth the rights of men. 



576 



AMERICAN POETRY 



To them that wept and cursed Bull Run, 
What was it but despair and shame? 

Who saw behind the cloud the sun? 
Who knew that God was in the flame? 

Had not defeat upon defeat, 

Disaster on disaster come, 
The slave's emancipated feet 

Had never marched behind the drum. 20 

There is a Hand that bends our deeds 
To mightier issues than we planned, 

Each son that triumphs, each that bleeds, 
My country, serves Its dark command. 

I do not know beneath what sky 
Nor on what seas shall be thy fate; 

I only know it shall be high, 
I only know it shall be great. 

July, 1898. 

AFTER BUSINESS HOURS 

When I sit down with thee at last alone, 
Shut out the wrangle of the clashing 

day, 
The scrape of petty jars that fret and 

fray. 
The snarl and yelp of brute beasts for 
a bone; 
When thou and I sit down at last alone. 
And through the dusk of rooms divinely 

gray 
Spirit to spirit finds its voiceless way, 
As tone melts meeting in accordant 
tone, — 
Oh, then our souls, far in the vast of sky, 
Look from a tower, too high for sound 
of strife 10 

Or any violation of the town, 
Where the great vacant winds of God go 
by, 
And over the huge misshapen city of life 
Love pours his silence and his moonlight 
down. 

The Atlantic Monthly, Aug., 1898. 



FROM "TALIESIN: A MASQUE" 
Voices of Unseen Spirits 

Here falls no light of sun nor stars ; 

No stir nor striving here intrudes; 
No moan nor merry-making mars 

The quiet of these soHtudes. 



Submerged in sleep, the passive soul 
Is one with all the things that seem; 

Night blurs in one confused whole 
Alike the dreamer and the dream. 

O dwellers in the busy town ! 

For dreams you smile, for dreams you 
weep. ^° 

Come out, and lay your burdens down ! 

Come out; there is no God but Sleep. 

Sleep, and renounce the vital day; 

For evil is the child of life. 
Let be the will to live, and pray 

To find forgetfulness of strife. 

Beneath the thicket of these leaves 
No light discriminates each from each. 

No Self that wrongs, no Self that grieves, 
Hath longer deed nor creed nor speech. 

Sleep on the mighty Mother's breast! 21 
Sleep, and no more be separate ! 

Then, one with Nature's ageless rest, 
There shall be no more sin to hate. 

Poet Lore, 1899. 



FAITH AND FATE 

To horse, my dear, and out into the 

night ! 
Stirrup and saddle and away, away! 
Into the darkness, in the affright. 
Into the unknown on our trackless way ! 
Past bridge and town missiled with flying 

feet, 
Into the wilderness our riding thrills; 
The gallop echoes through the startled 

street. 
And shrieks like laughter in the demoned 

hills; 
Things come to meet us with fantastic 

frown, 
And hurry past with maniac despair ; 10 
Death from the stars looks ominously 

down — 
Ho, ho, the dauntless riding that we 

dare ! 
East, to the dawn, or west or south or 

north ! 
Loose rein upon the neck of Fate — and 

forth ! 

The Bookman, April, 1900. 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 
(1869-1910) 



GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT 

At last the bird that sang so long 
In twilight circles, hushed his song: 
Above the ancient square 
The stars came here and there. 

Good Friday night ! Some hearts were 

bowed, 
But some amid the waiting crowd 
Because of too much youth 
Felt not the mystic ruth; 

And of these hearts my heart was one: 
Nor when beneath the arch of stone ^^ 
With dirge and candle flame 
The cross of passion came, 

Did my glad spirit feel reproof, 
Though on the awful tree aloof, 
Unspiritual, dead. 
Drooped the ensanguined Head. 

To one who stood where myrtles made 

A little space of deeper shade 

(As I could half descry, 

A stranger, even as I), 20 

I said, "These youths who bear along 
The symbols of their Saviour's wrong, 
The spear, the garment torn, 
The flaggel, and the thorn, — 

"Why do they make this mummery? 
Would not a brave man gladly die 
For a much smaller thing 
Than to be Christ and king?" 

He answered nothing, and I turned. 
Throned in its hundred candles burned 3° 
The jeweled eidolon 
Of her who bore the Son. 

The crowd was prostrate; still, I felt 
No shame until the stranger knelt; 
Then not to kneel, almost 
Seemed like a vulgar boast. 

I knelt. The doll- face, waxen white. 
Flowered out a living dimness ; bright 
Dawned the dear mortal grace 
Of my own mother's face. 40 



When we were risen up, the street 
Was vacant; all the air hung sweet 
With lemon-flowers; and soon 
The sky would hold the moon. 

More silently than new-found friends 
To whom much silence makes amends 
For the much babble vain 
While yet their lives were twain, 

We walked along the odorous hill. 
The Hght was little yet; his will 5o 

I could not see to trace 
Upon his form or face. 

So when aloft the gold moon broke, 
I cried, heart-stung. As one who woke 
He turned unto my cries 
The anguish of his eyes. 

"Friend ! Master !" I cried falteringly, 
"Thou seest the thing they make of thee. 
Oh, by the light divine 
My mother shares with thine, 60 

"I beg that I may lay my head 
Upon thy shoulder and be fed 
With thoughts of brotherhood!" 
So through the odorous wood. 

More silently than friends new-found 
We walked. At the first meadow bound 
His figure ashen-stoled 
Sank in the moon's broad gold. , 

The Atlantic Monthly, May, 1898. 

AN ODE IN TIME OF 
HESITATION 1 



Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens 

made 
To thrill the heedless passer's heart with 

awe 
And set here in the city's talk and trade 
To the good memory of Robert Shaw, 

^ After seeing at Boston the statue of Robert 
Gould Shaw, killed while storming Fort Wagner, 
July 18, 1863, at the head of the first enlisted 
negro regiment, the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. 
(Author's Note.) 



577 



578 



AMERICAN POETRY 



This bright March morn I stand, 

And hear the distant spring come up the 

land; 
Knowing that what I hear is not unheard 
Of this boy soldier and his negro band, 
For all their gaze is fixed so stern ahead, 
For all the fatal rhythm of their tread. ^° 
The land they died to save from death 

and shame 
Trembles and waits, hearing the spring's 

great name, 
And by her pangs these resolute ghosts 

are stirred. 

II 
Through street and mall the tides of peo- 
ple go 
Heedless; the trees upon the Common 

show 
No hint of green; but to my listening 

heart 
The still earth doth impart 
Assurance of her jubilant emprise. 
And it is clear to my long-searching eyes 
That love at last has might upon the 

skies. 20 

The ice is runneled on the little pond; 
A telltale patter drips from off the trees ; 
The air is touched with southland spi- 

ceries. 
As if but yesterday it tossed the frond 
Of pendant mosses where the live-oaks 

grow 
Beyond Virginia and the Carolines, 
Or had its will among the fruits and vines 
Of aromatic isles asleep beyond 
Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. 



Soon shall the Cape Ann children shout 
in glee, 3° 

Spying the arbutus, spring's dear recluse; 

Hill lads at dawn shall hearken the wild 
goose 

Go honking northward over Tennessee ; 

West from Oswego to Sault Sainte-Marie, 

And on to where the Pictured Rocks are 
hung, 

And yonder where, gigantic, wilful, young, 

Chicago sitteth at the northwest gates. 

With restless violent hands and casual 
tongue 

Moulding her mighty fates. 

The Lakes shall robe them in ethereal 
sheen ; - 4° 

And like a larger sea, the vital green 

Of springing wheat shall vastly be out- 
flung 

Over Dakota and the prairie states. 



I 



By desert people immemorial 

On Arizonan mesas shall be done 

Dim rites unto the thunder and the sun; 
Nor shall the primal gods lack sacrifice 
More splendid, when the white Sierras 

call 
Unto the Rockies straightway to arise 
And dance before the unveiled ark of the 
year, so 

Sounding their windy cedars as for 

shawms. 
Unrolling rivers clear 
For flutter of broad phylacteries; 
While Shasta signals to Alaskan seas 
That watch old sluggish glaciers down- 
ward creep 
To fling their icebergs thundering from 

the steep. 
And Maripose through the purple calms 
Gazes at far Hawaii crowned with palms 
Where East and West are met, — 
A rich seal on the ocean's bosom set ^ 
To say that East and West are twain. 
With different loss and gain : 
The Lord hath sundered them; let them 
be sundered yet. 



Alas ! what sounds are these that come 

Sullenly over the Pacific seas, — 

Sounds of ignoble battle, striking dumb 

The season's half-awakened ecstasies? 

Must I be humble, then. 

Now when my heart hath need of pride? 

Wild love falls on me from these sculp- 
tured men; 7o 

By loving much the land for which they 
died 

I would be justified. 

My spirit was away on pinions wide 

To soothe in praise of her its passionate 
mood 

And ease it of its ache of gratitude. 

Too sorely heavy is the debt they lay 

On me and the companions of my day. 

I would remember now 

My country's goodHness, make sweet her 
name. 

Alas ! what shade art thou So 

Of sorrow or of blame 

Liftest the lyric leafage from her brow. 

And pointest a slow finger at her shame? 



Lies ! lies ! It cannot be ! The wars we 

wage 
Are noble, and our battles still are won 
By justice for us, ere we lift the gage. 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



579 



We have not sold our loftiest heritage. 

The proud republic hath not stooped to 
cheat 88 

And scramble in the market-place of war; 

Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. 

Here is her witness : this, her perfect son, 

This delicate and proud New England 
soul 

Who leads despised men, with just-un- 
shackled feet, 

Up the large ways where death and glory 
meet. 

To show all peoples that our shame is 
done. 

That once more we are clean and spirit- 
whole. 



Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning 

sand 
All night he lay, speaking some simple 

word 
From hour to hour to the slow minds that 

heard, 99 

Holding each poor life gently in his hand 
And breathing on the base rejected clay 
Till each dark face shone mystical and 

grand 
Against the breaking day; 
And lo, the shard the potter cast-away 
Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine 
Fulfilled of the divine 
Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring- 
finger stirred. 
Then upward, where the shadowy bastion 

loomed 
Huge on the mountain in the wet sea 

light, 
Whence now, and now, infernal nowerage 

bloomed, "o 

Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its 

deadly seed, — 
They swept, and died like freemen on the 

height, 
Like freemen, and like men of noble 

breed; 
And when the battle fell away at night 
By hasty and contemptuous hands were 

thrust 
Obscurely in a common grave with him 
The fair-haired keeper of their love and 

trust. 
Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb 
In nature's busy old democracy 
To flush the mountain laurel when she 

blows 120 

Sweet by the southern sea. 
And heart with crumbled heart chmbs in 

the rose; — 



The untaught hearts with the high heart 

that knew 
This mountain fortress for no earthly 

hold 
Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old 
Of spiritual wrong, 

Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong. 
Expugnable but by a nation's rue 
And bowing down before that equal shrine 
By all men held divine, 130 

Whereof his band and he were the most 

holy sign. 



bitter, bitter shade ! 
Wilt thou not put the scorn 

And instant tragic question from thine 

eye? 
Do thy dark brows yet crave 
That swift and angry stave — 
Unmeet for this desirous morn — 
That I have striven, striven to evade? 
Gazing on him, must I not deem they err 
Whose careless lips in street and shop aver 
As common tidings, deed to make his 

cheek 141 

Flush from the bronze, and his dead 

throat to speak? 
Surely some elder singer would arise, 
Whose harp hath leave to threaten and 

to mourn 
Above this people when they go astray. 
Is Whitman, the strong spirit, overworn? 
Has Whittier put his yearning wrath 

away ? 

1 will not and I dare not yet believe ! 
Though furtively the sunlight seems to 

grieve. 
And the spring-laden breeze iso 

Out of the gladdening west is sinister 
With sounds of nameless battle overseas; 
Though when we turn and question in 

suspense 
If these things be indeed after these ways. 
And what things are to follow after these. 
Our fluent men of place and consequence 
Fumble and fill their mouths with hollow 

phrase, 
Or for the end-all of deep arguments 
Intone their dull commercial Hturgies — 
I dare not yet believe ! My ears are shut ! 
I will not hear the thin satiric praise 161 
And muffled laughter of our enemies. 
Bidding us never sheathe our valiant 

sword 
Till we have changed our birthright for 

a gourd 
Of wild pulse stolen from a barbarian's 

hut; 



580 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Showing how wise it is to cast away 
The symbols of our spiritual sway, 
That so our hands with better ease 
May wield the driver's whip and grasp 
the jailer's keys. 



Was it for this our fathers kept the law? 
This crown shall crown their struggle and 

their ruth? _ _ 171 

Are we the eagle nation Milton saw 
Mewing its mighty 3'outh, 
Soon to possess the mountain winds of 

truth, 
And be a swift familiar of the sun 
Where aye before God's face his trumpets 

run? 
Or have we but the talons and the maw. 
And for the abject likeness of our heart 
Shall some less lordly bird be set 

apart ? — 
Some gross-billed wader where the swamps 

are fat? 180 

Some gorger in the sun? Some prowler 

with the bat? 

IX 

Ah no! 

We have not fallen so. 

We are our fathers' sons : let those who 

lead us know ! 
'T was only yesterday sick Cuba's cry 
Came up the tropic wind, "Now help us, 

for we die !" 
Then Alabama heard, 
And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho 
Shouted a burning word. 
Proud state with proud impassioned state 

conferred, 190 

And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth. 
East, west, and south, and north. 
Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood 

and young 
Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, 
By the unforgotten names of eager boys 
Who might have tasted girls' love and 

been stung 
With the old mystic joys 
And starry griefs, now the spring nights 

come on. 
But that the heart of youth is generous, — 
We charge you, ye who lead us, 200 

Breathe on their chivalry no hint of 

stain ! 
Turn not their new-world victories to 

gain ! 
One least leaf plucked for chaffer from 

the bays 
Of their dear praise, 



One jot of their pure conquest put to hire, 
The implacable republic will require; 
With clamor, in the glare and gaze of 

noon. 
Or subtly, coming as a thief at night, 
But surely, very surely, slow or soon 
That insult deep we deeply will requite. 210 
Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity ! 
For save we let th.e island men go free. 
Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts 
Will curse us from the lamentable coasts 
Where walk the frustrate dead. 
The cup of trembling shall be drained 

quite. 
Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, 
With ashes of the hearth shall be made 

white 
Our hair, and wailing shall be in the tent; 
Then on your guiltier head 220 

Shall our intolerable self-disdain 
Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain; 
For manifest in that disastrous light 
We shall discern the right 
And do' it, tardily. — O ye who lead, 
Take heed ! 
Blindness we may forgive, but baseness 

we will smite. 

The Atlantic Monthly, May, 1900. 



GLOUCESTER MOORS 

A mile behind is Gloucester town 
Where the fishing fleets put in, 
A mile ahead the land dips down 
And the woods and farms begin. 
Here, where the moors stretch free 
In the high blue afternoon, 
Are the marching sun and talking sea. 
And the racing winds that wheel and flee 
On the flying heels of June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, «> 

Blue is the quaker-maid. 

The wild geranium holds its dew 

Long in the boulder's shade. 

Wax-red hangs the cup 

From the huckleberry boughs. 

In barberry bells the grey moths sup. 

Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up 

Sweet bowls for their carouse. 

Over the shelf of the sandy cove 
Beach-peas blossom late. 20 

By copse and cliff the swallows rove 
Each calling to his mate. 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



581 



Seaward the sea-gulls go, 

And the land-birds all are here; 

That green-gold flash was a vireo, 

And yonder flame where the marsh-flags 

grow 
Was a scarlet tanager. 

This earth is not the steadfast place 

We landsmen build upon; 

From deep to deep she varies pace, 3° 

And while she comes is gone. 

Beneath my feet I feel 

Her smooth bulk heave and dip ; 

With velvet plunge and soft upreel 

She swings and steadies to her keel 

Like a gallant, gallant ship. 

These summer clouds she sets for sail, 
The sun is her masthead light. 
She tows the moon like a pinnace frail 
Where her phosphor wake churns bright. 
Now hid, now looming clear, 41 

On the face of the dangerous blue 
The star fleets tack and wheel and veer, 
But on, but on does the old earth steer 
As if her port she knew. 

God, dear God ! Does she know her port, 

Though she goes so far about? 

Or blind astray, does she make her sport 

To brazen and chance it out? 

I watched when her captains passed : so 

She were better captainless. 

Men in the cabin, before the mast. 

But some were reckless and some aghast, 

And same sat gorged at mess. 

By her battened hatch I leaned and caught 
Sounds from the noisome hold, — 
Cursing and sighing of souls distraught 
And cries too sad to be told. 
Then I strove to go down and see ; 
But they said, "Thou are not of us !" ^° 
I turned to those on the deck with me 
And cried, "Give help !" But they said, 

"Let be : 
Our ship. sails faster thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue. 

Blue is the quaker-maid. 

The alder-clump where the brook comes 

through 
Breeds cresses in its shade. 
To be out of the moiling street 
With its swelter and its sin ! 
Who has given to me this sweet, 7° 

And given my brother dust to eat? 
And when will his wage come in? 



Scattering wide or blown in ranks, 
Yellow and white and brown_, 
Boats and boats from the fishing banks 
Come home to Gloucester town. 
There is cash to purse and spend. 
There are wives to be embraced, 
Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend. 
And hearts to take and keep to the 

end,— 80 

O little sails, make haste ! 

But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, 

What harbor town for thee? 

What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, 

Shall crowd the banks to see? 

Shall all the happy shipmates then 

Stand singing brotherly? 

Or shall a haggard ruthless few 

Warp her over and bring her to. 

While the many broken souls of men 9o 

Fester down in the slaver's pen. 

And nothing to say or do ? ^ 

Scribner's Magazine, Dec, 1900. 
THE MENAGERIE 2 

Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut 
Such capers every day ! I'm just about 
Mellow, but then — There goes the tent- 
flap shut. 
Rain's in the wind. I thought so : every 

snout 
Was twitching when the keeper turned 
me out. 

That screaming parrot makes my blood 

run cold. 
Gabriel's trump ! the big bull elephant 
Squeals "Rain !" to the parched herd. 

The monkeys scold, 8 

And jabber that it's rain water they want. 
(It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.) 

I'll foot it home, to try and make believe 
I'm sober. After this I stick to beer. 
And drop the circus when the sane folks 

leave. 
A man's a fool to look at things too near : 
They look back, and begin to cut up queer. 

* This metaphor of the ship of society, con- 
tinually recurrent in poetry, is elaborated in 
great detail, with the striking omission of the 
folk in the hold, by Edward Rowland Sill, in a 
letter of February 25, 1862. See the "Life and 
Work" of Sill by W. B. Parker, pp. 47, 48— 
not published until 1915. 

2 This theme, which frequently appears in 
sober literature, is discussed _ in_ a strikingly 
parallel passage by Mark Twain in one of his 
hours of smiling seriousness. See his "Life," 
by Albert Bigelow Paine, pp. 1357-1363. 



582 



AMERICAN POETRY 



Beasts do, at any rate; especially 

Wild devils caged. They have the coolest 

way 
Of being something else than what you 

see; 
You pass a sleek young zebra nosing hay, 
A nylghau looking bored and distingue, — 

And think you've seen a donkey and a 

■ bird. 21 

Not on your Hfe! Just glance back, if 

you dare. 
The zebra chews, the nylghau has n't 

stirred; 
But something 's happened, Heaven knows 

what or where 
To freeze your scalp and pompadour your 

hair. 

I'm not precisely an aeolian lute 

Hung in the wandering winds of senti- 
ment. 

But drown me if the ugliest, meanest 
brute 

Grunting and fretting in that sultry tent 

Did n't just floor me with embarrassment! 

'T was like a thunder-clap from out the 
clear,— 31 

One minute they were circus beasts, some 
grand. 

Some ugly, some amusing, and some 
queer : 

Rival attractions to the hobo band. 

The flying jenny, and the peanut stand. 

Next minute they were old hearth-mates 
of mine ! 

Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare ! 

Patient, satiric, devilish, divine; 

A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care. 

Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim des- 
pair. 40 

Within my blood my ancient kindred 

spoke, — 
Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard 

afar 
Down ocean caves when behemoth awoke. 
Or through fern forests roared the ple- 

siosaur 
Locked with the giant-bat in ghastly war. 

And suddenly, as in a flash of light, 

I saw great Nature working out her plan ; 

Through all her shapes from mastodon to 

mite 
Forever groping, testing, passing on 49 
To find at last the shape and soul of Man. 



Till in the fulness of accomplished time, 
Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business 

bent. 
Tracks her through frozen and through 

torrid clime, 
And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent. 
The stages of her huge experiment; 

Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours ; 
Dragging to light her blinking, slothful 

moods ; 
Publishing fretful seasons when her 

powers 
Worked wild and sullen in her solitudes, 
Or when her mordant laughter shook the 

woods. 60 

Here, round about me, were her vagrant 

births ; 
Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she 

essayed ; 
Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy 

mirths ; 
The troublings of her spirit as she strayed, 
Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was 

afraid, 

On that long road she went to seek man- 
kind; 

Here were the darkling coverts that she 
beat 

To find the Hider she was sent to find; 

Here the distracted footprints of her feet 

Whereby her soul's Desire she came to 
greet. 70 

But why should they, her botch-work, 

turn about 
And stare disdain at me, her finished job? 
Why was the place one vast suspended 

shout 
Of laughter? Why did all the daylight 

throb 
With soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken 

sob? 

Helpless I stood among those awful cages ; 
The beasts were walking loose, and I was 

bagged ! 
I, I, last product of the toiling ages, 
Goal of heroic feet that never lagged, — 
A little man in trousers, slightly jagged. 

Deliver me from such another jury ! 81 
The Judgment-day will be a picnic to't. 
Their satire was more dreadful than their 

fury. 
And worst of all was just a kind of brute 
Disgust, and giving up, and sinking mute. 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



583 



Survival of the fittest, adaptation, 
And all their other evolution terms, 
Seem to omit one small consideration. 
To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms 
Have souls : there's soul in everything that 
squirms. 9° 

And souls are restless, plagued, impatient 

things, 
All dream and unaccountable desire; 
Crawling, but pestered with the thought 

of wings; 
Spreading through every inch of earth's 

old mire. 
Mystical hanker after something higher. 

Wishes are horses, as I understand. 
I guess a wistful polyp that has strokes 
Of feeling faint to gallivant on land 
Will come to be a scandal to his folks; 
Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats 
and jokes. i°° 

And at the core of every life that crawls 
Or runs or flies or swims or vegetates — 
Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in 

the galls 
Of shark and tiger planting gorgeous 

hates. 
Lighting the love of eagles for their 

mates ; 

Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fish 
That is and is not living — moved and 

stirred 
From the beginning a mysterious wish, 
A vision, a command, a fatal Word : 
The name of Man was uttered, and they 

heard. "» 

Upward along the aeons of old war 
They sought him : wing and shank-bone, 

claw and bill 
Were fashioned and rejected; wide and 

far 
They roamed the twilight jungles of their 

will; 
But still they sought him, and desired him 

still. 

Man they desired, but mind you. Perfect 

Man, 
The radiant and the loving, yet to be! 
I hardly wonder, when they came to scan 
The upshot of their strenuosity, 
They gazed with mixed emotions upon 

tne, ^^° 



Well, my advice to you is Face the crea- 
tures, 

Or spot them sideways with your weather 
eye. 

Just to keep tab on their expansive fea- 
tures ; 

It isn't pleasant when you're stepping 
high 

To catch a giraffe smiling on the sly. 

If nature made you graceful, don't get 

gay 
Back-to before the hippopotamus ; 
If meek and godly, find some place to 

play 
Besides right where three mad hyenas 

fuss : 
You may hear language that we won't 

discuss. 130 

If you're a sweet thing in a flower-bed 

hat, 
Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in. 
Don't squander love's bright springtime 

girding at 
An old chimpanzee with an Irish chin: 
There may be hidden meaning in his grin. 

THE DAGUERREOTYPE! 

This, then, is she, 

My mother as she looked at seventeen, 

When she first met my father. Young 

incredibly. 
Younger than spring, without the faintest 

trace 
Of disappointment, weariness, or tean 
Upon the childlike earnestness and grace 
Of the waiting face 
These close-wound ropes of pearl 
(Or common beads made precious by their 

use) 
Seem heavy for so slight a throat to 

wear ; 10 

But the low bodice leaves the shoulders 

bare 
And half the glad swell of the breast, 

for news 
That now the woman stirs within the girl. 

^ A tribute to Moody's father appears in lines 
62-64 of this poem. "But the mother doubtless 
had the larger share in the guidance and dis- 
cipline of the growing boy, and the profound 
impression she left upon his mind and heart is 
recorded not only in 'The Daguerreotype,' . . . 
and in the veiled but illuminating reference in 
'Faded Pictures', but even more fully in that 
love and reverence for woman which became 
fundamental to his whole philosophy of life." 
{John M. Manly in the introduction to "Poems 
and Plays of Wm. Vaughn Moody.") 



584 



AMERICAN POETRY 



And yet, 

Even so, the loops and globes 

Of beaten gold 

And jet 

Hung, in the stately way of old, 

From the ears' drooping lobes i9 

On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, 

Show all too matron - sober for the 

cheek, — 
Which, now I look again, is perfect child, 
Or no — or no — 'tis girlhood's very self. 
Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden 

elf 
So meek, so maiden mild, 
But startling the close gazer with the 

sense 
Of passions forest-shy and forest-wild, 
And delicate delirious merriments. 

As a moth beats sidewise 

And up and over, and tries 3° 

To skirt the irresistible lure 

Of the flame that has him sure, 

My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, 

Flutters and makes delay, — 

Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, 

Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair 

And each hid radiance there, 

But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, 

The vehement peace which drifts it toward 

the light 
Where soon — ah, now, with cries 4° 

Of grief and giving-up unto its gain 
It shrinks no longer nor denies, 
But dips 
Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of 

pain, — 
And all is well, for I have seen them 

plain. 
The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes ! 
Across the blinding gush of these good 

tears 
They shine as in the sweet and heavy 

years 
When by her bed and chair 
We children gathered jealously to share so 
The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and 

thyme. 
Where the sore-stricken body made a 

chme 
Gentler than May and pleasanter than 

rhyme, 
Holier and more mystical than prayer. 

God, how thy ways are strange! 
That this should be, even this. 
The patient head 

Which suffered years ago the dreary 
change ! 



That these so dewy lips should be the 

same 
As those I stooped to kiss 6o 

And heard my harrowing half - spoken 

name, 
A little ere the one who bowed above her, 
Our father and her very constant lover, 
Rose stoical, and we knew that she was 

dead. 
Then I, who could not understand or 

share 
His antique nobleness. 
Being unapt to bear 
The insults which time flings us for our 

proof, 
Fled from the horrible roof 
Into the alien sunshine merciless, 7° 

The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day. 
Raging to front God in his pride of sway 
And hurl across the lifted swords of fate 
That ringed Him where He sat 
My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate 
Which somehow should undo Him, after 

all! 
That this girl face, expectant, virginal, 
Which gazes out at me 
Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth 
(Save for the eyes, with other presage 

stored) So 

To pledge me troth. 
And in the kingdom where the heart is 

lord 
Take sail on the terrible gladness of the 

deep 
Whose winds the grey Norns keep, — 
That this should be indeed 
The flesh which caught my soul, a flying 

seed. 
Out of the to and fro 
Of scattering hands where the seedsman 

Mage, 
Stooping from star to star and age to age 
Sings as he sows ! 

That underneath this breast 9o 

Nine moons I fed 
Deep of divine unrest. 
While over and over in the dark she said, 
"Blessed ! but not as happier children 

blessed" — 
That this should be 
Even she. . . . 

God, how with time and change 
Thou makest thy footsteps strange ! 
Ah, now I know 

They play upon me, and it is not so. 1°° 
Why, 'tis a girl I never saw before, 
A little thing to flatter and make weep, 
To tease until her heart is sore, 
Then kiss and clear the score; 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



585 



A gypsy run-the-fields, 

A little liberal daughter of the earth, 

Good for what hour of truancy and mirth 

The careless season yields 

Hither -side the flood of the year and 

yonder of the neap; 
Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty 

light good-byes. — "° 

shrined above the skies, 
Frown not, clear brow, 
Darken not, holy eyes ! 

Thou knowest well I know that it is 
thou ! 

Only to save me from such memories 

As would unman me quite, 

Here in this web of strangeness caught 

And prey to troubled thought 

Do I devise 

These foolish shifts and slight; 120 

Only to shield me from the afflicting sense 

Of some waste influence 

Which from this morning face and lus- 
trous hair 

Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair. 

In any other guise. 

With any but this girlish depth of gaze, 

Your coming had not so unsealed and 
poured 

The dusty amphoras where I had stored 

The drippings of the winepress of my 
days. 

1 think these eyes foresee, ^3° 
Now in their unawakened virgin time. 
Their mother's pride in me, 

And dream even now, unconsciously. 

Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung 
lea 

You pictured I should climb. 

Broken premonitions come, 

Shapes, gestures visionary. 

Not as once to maiden Mary 

The manifest angel with fresh lilies came 

Intelligibly calling her by name; 140 

But vanishingly, dumb, 

Thwarted and bright and wild, 

As heralding a sin-defiled. 

Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, pas- 
sionate man-child. 

Who yet should be a trump of mighty 
call 

Blown in the gates of evil kings 

To make them fall; 

Who yet should be a sword of flame be- 
fore 

The soul's inviolate door 

To beat away the clang of hellish wings; 

Who yet should be a lyre 151 

Of high unquenchable desire 

In the day of little things. — 



Look, where the amphoras, 

The yield of many days. 

Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of 

self 
And set upon the shelf 
In sullen pride 

The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide — 
O mother mine ! i^" 

Are these the bringings - in, the doings 

fine, 
Of him you used to praise? 
Emptied and overthrown 
The jars lie strown. 
These, for their flavor duly nursed, 
Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; 
These, I thought honied to the very seal, 
Dry, dry, — a little acid meal, 
A pinch of mouldy dust. 
Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; 
These, rude to look upon, 171 

But flasking up the liquor dearest won, 
Through sacred hours and hard. 
With watching and with wrestlings and 

with grief. 
Even of these, of these in chief. 
The stale breath sickens, reeking from 

the shard. 
Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than 

naught ! 
What shall be said or thought 
Of the slack hours and waste imaginings. 
The cynic rending of the wings, 180 

Known to that froward, that unreckoning 

heart 
Whereof this brewage was the precious 

part. 
Treasured and set away with furtive 

boast? 
O dear and cruel ghost, 
Be merciful, be just! 
See, I was yours and I am in the dust. 
Then look not so, as if all things were 

well! 
Take your eyes from me, leave me to my 

shame, 
Or else, if gaze they must. 
Steel them with judgment, darken them 

with blame; 190 

But by the ways of light ineffable 
You bade me go and I have faltered from. 
By the low waters moaning out of hell 
Whereto my feet have come. 
Lay not on me these intolerable 
Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of hap- 
py trust ! 

Nothing dismayed? 

By all I say and all I hint not made 

Afraid? 



586 



AMERICAN POETRY 



O then, stay by me! Let 200 

These eyes afSict me, cleanse me, keep 

me yet 
Brave eyes and true ! 
See how the shrivelled heart, that long 

has lain 
Dead to delight- and pain. 
Stirs, and begins again 
To utter pleasant life, as if it knew 
The wintry days were through; 
As if in its awakening boughs it heard 
The quick, sweet-spoken bird. 
Strong eyes and brave, 21° 

Inexorable to save! 



THE DEATH OF EVE 



At dawn they came to the stream Hid- 

dekel, 
Old Eve and her red first-born, who was 

now 
Greyer than she, and bowed with more 

than years. 
Then Cain beneath his level palm looked 

hard 
Across the desert, and turned with out- 
spread hand 
As one who says, "Thou seest; we are 

fooled." 
But Eve, with clutching fingers on his 

arm. 
And pointing eastward where the risen 

sun 
Made a low mist of light, said, "It is 

there !" 



For, many, many months, in the great 

tent 10 

Of Enoch, Eve had pined, and dared not 

tell 
Her longing: not to Irad, Enoch's son. 
Masterful like his father, who had held 
Harsh rule, and named the tent-place with 

his name; 
Not to mild Seth, given her in Abel's 

stead ; 
Not unto angry Lamech, nor his wives, 
Usurpers of her honor in the house; 
Not to young Jubal, songs-man of the 

tribe. 
Who touched his harp at twilight by her 

door; 
And not to bed-rid Adam, most of all 20 
Not unto Adam. Yet at last, the spring 



Being at end, and evening wifti warm 

stars 
Falling upon them by the camel kraal, 
Weary with long desire she spoke to 

Seth, 
Touching her meaning faintly and far off 
To try him. With still scrutiny awhile 
He looked at her; then, hfting doubtful 

hands 
Of prayer, he led her homeward to the 

tent. 
With tremulous speech of small and week- 
day things. 29 
Next, as she lay by Adam before dawn. 
His big and wasted hand groping for 

hers 
Suddenly made her half-awakened heart 
Break back and back across the shadowy 

years 
To Eden, and God calling in the dew, 
And all that song of Paradise foredone 
Which Jubal made in secret, fearing her 
The storied mother; but in secret, too. 
Herself had hstened, while the maids at 

toil 
Or by the well at evening sang of her 
Untruthful things, which, when she once 

had heard, 4° 

Seemed truthful. Now, bowed upon , 

Adam's breast, ■ 

In the deep hush that comes before th* 

dawn. 
She whispered hints and fragments of her 

will ; 
And when the shaggy forehead nade no 

sign. 
And the blind face searched still as quietly 
In the tent-roof for what, these many 

months, 
It seemed to seek for there, she held him 

close 
And poured her whole wild meaning in 

his ear. 
But as a man upon his death-bed dreams 
That he should know a matter, and knows 

it not, 30 

Nor who they are who fain would have 

him know. 
He turned to hers his dim, disastrous 

eyes. 
Wherein the knowledge of her and the 

long love 
Glimmered through veil on veil of va- 
cancy. 
That evening little Jubal, coming home 
Singing behind his flock, saw ancient Eve 
Crouched by the ruined altar in the glade. 
The accursed place, sown deep each early 

spring 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



587 



With stones and salt — the Valley of the 

Blood; 
And that same night Eve fled under the 

stars 60 

Eastward to Nod, the land of violence, 
To Cain, and the strong city he had built 
Against all men who hunted for his soul. 



She gave her message darkly in the gates, 
And waited trembling. At day- fall he 

came. 
She knew him not beneath his whitened 

hair ; 
But when at length she knew him, and was 

known, 
The whitened hair, the bent and listening 

frame, 
The savage misery of the sidelong eyes. 
Fell on her heart with strangling. So it 

was 70 

That now for many days she held her 

peace. 
Abiding with him till he -seemed again 
The babe she bare first in the wilderness. 
Her maiden fruits to Adam, the new joy 
The desert bloomed with, which the desert 

stars 
Whispered concerning. Yet she held her 

peace, 
Until he seemed a young man in the house, 
A gold frontlet of pride and a green ce- 
dar; 
Then, leading him apart, Eve fold her 

wish. 
Not faltering now nor uttering it far off. 
But as a sovereign mother to her son 81 
Speaks simple destiny. He looked at her 
Dimly, as if he saw her not ; then stooped, 
Sharpening his brows upon her. With a 

cry 
She laid fierce, shaken hands about his 

breast. 
Drew down his neck, and harshly from 

his brow 
Pushing the head-band and the matted 

locks. 
Baring the livid flesh with violence, 
She kissed him on the Sign. Cain bowed 

his head 
Upon her shoulder, saying, "I will go !" 90 



IV 

Now they had come to the stream Hid- 

dekel, 
And passed beyond the stream. There, 

full in face. 



Where the low morning made a mist of 

light. 
The Garden and its gates lay like a flower 
Afloat on the still waters of the dawn. 
The clicking leap of bright-mailed grass- 
hoppers. 
The dropping of sage-beetles from their 

perch 
On the gnawed cactus, even the pulsing 

drum 
Of blood-beats in their ears, merged sud- 
denly 
Into ethereal hush. Then Cain made halt, 
Held her, and muttered, " 'T is enough. 
Thou sawest ! loi 

His Angel stood and threatened in the 

sun !" 
And Eve said, "Yea, and though the day 

were set 
With sworded angels, thou would'st wait 

for me 
Yonder, before the gates; which, look you, 

child, 
Lie open to me as the gates to him, 
Thy father, when he entered in his rage, 
Calling thee from the dark, where of old 

days 
I kept thee folded, hidden, till he called." 
So grey Cain by the unguarded portal sat. 
His arms crossed o'er his forehead, and 
his face "i 

Hid in his meagre knees ; but ancient Eve 
Passed on into the vales of Paradise. 



Tranced in lonely radiance stood the Tree, 
As Eve put back the glimmering ferns 

and vines 
And crept into the place. Awhile she 

stooped. 
And as a wild thing by the drinking-pool 
Peers ere it drinks, she peered. Then, 

laughing low. 
Her frame of grief and body of her years 
She lifted proudly to its virgin height, ^^o 
Flung her lean arms into the pouring day, 
And circling with slow paces round the 

Tree, 
She sang her stifled meaning out to God. 

eve's song 

Behold, against thy will, against thy word, 
Against the wrath and warning of thy 

sword. 
Eve has been Eve, O Lord! 
A pitcher filled, she comes back from the 

brook, 



588 



AMERICAN POETRY 



A wain she comes, laden with mellow 

ears; 
She is a roll inscribed, a prophet's book 
Writ strong with characters. 130 

Behold, Eve willed it so; look, if it be so, 

look! 

Early at dawn, while yet thy watchers 

slept, 
Lightly her untamed spirit over-leapt 
The walls where she was kept. 
As a young comely leopardess she stood: 
Her lustrous fell, her sullen grace, her 

fleetness. 
They gave her foretaste, in thy tangled 

wood. 
Of many a savage sweetness. 
Good to fore-gloat upon; being tasted, 

sweet and good. 

O swayer in the sunlit tops of trees, 140 
O comer up with cloud out of the seas, 
O laugher at thine ease 
Over thine everlasting dream of mirth, 
O lord of savage pleasures, savage pains, 
Knew'st Thou not Eve, who brought est 

her to birth? 
Searcher of breast and reins. 
Thou should' St have searched thy Woman, 

the seedpod of thine earthj 

Herself hath searched her softly through 

and through; 
Singing she lifts her full soul up to view; 
Lord, do Thou praise it, too! 151 

Look, as she turns it, how it dartles 

free 
Its gathered meanings: woman, mother, 

wife. 
Spirit that was and is and waits to be. 
Worm of the dust of life. 
Child, sister— ghostly rays! V^hat lights 

are these. Lord, see! 

Look where Eve lifts her storied soul on 
high. 

And turns it as a ball, she knows not 

why, 
Save that she could not die 
Till she had shown Thee all the secret 

sphere — 160 

The bright rays and the dim, and these 

that run 
Bright-darkling, making Thee to doubt 

and fear, — 
Oh, love them every one! 
Eve pardons Thee not one, not one Lord ■ 

dost Thou heart ' ' 



Lovely to Eve was Adam's praising 

breath; 
His face averted bitter was as d'eath; 
Abel, her son, and Seth 
Lifted her heart to heaven, praising 

her; 
Cain with a little frown darkened the 

stars; 
And when the strings of Jubal's harp 

would stir, 170 

Like honey in cool jars 
The words he praised her with, like rai 

his praises were. 



Still, still with prayer and ecstasy she 

strove 

To be the woman they did well approve. 
That, narrowed to their love. 
She might have done with bitterness and 

blame ; 
But still along the yonder edge of prayer 
A spirit in a fiery whirlwind came — 
Eve's spirit, wild and fair — 
Crying with Eve's own voice the number 

of her name. 180 

Yea, turning in the whirlwind and the 

fire. 
Eve saw her own proud being all entire 
Made perfect by desire; 
And from the rounded gladness of that 

sphere 
Came bridal songs and harpings and fresh 

laughter; 
"Glory unto the faithful!" sounded clear 
And then, a little after, 
"Whoso denyeth aught, let him depart 

from here!" 

Now,^ therefore. Eve, with mystic years 

o'er-scored, 
Danceth and doeth pleasure to Thee, 

Lord, '190 

According to the word 
That Thou hast spoken to her bv her 

dream. 
Singing a song she dimly understands, 
She lifts her soul to let the splendor 

stream. 
Lord, fake away thy hands! 
Let this beam pierce thy heart, and this 

most piercing beam! 

Far off, rebelliously, yet for thy sake. 
She gathered them, O Thou who lovest 

to break 
A thousand souls, and shake 199 

Their dust along the wind, but sle-eplessly 



I 

a 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 



589 



Searchest the Bride fulfilled in limb and 

feature. 
Ready and boon to he fulfilled of Thee, 
Thine ample, tameless creature, — 
Against thy will and word, behold. Lord, 

this is She! 



From carven plinth and thousand-galleried 

green. 
Cedars, and all close boughs that over- 
tower, 
The shadows lengthened eastward from 

the gates, 
And still Cain hid his forehead in his 

knees, 
Nor dared to look abroad lest he might 

find 
More watchers in the portals; for he 

heard _ 210 

What seemed the rush of wings; from 

while to while 
A pallor grew and faded in his brain, 
As if a great light passed him near at 

hand. 
But when above the darkening desert 

swales 



The moon came, shedding white, unlikely- 
day, 

Cain rose, and with his back against the 
stones, 

As a keen fighter at the desperate odds. 

Glared round him. Cool and silent lay 
the night, 

Empty of any foe. Then, as a man 

Who has a thing to do, and makes his 
fear 220 

An icy wind to freeze his purpose firm, 

He stole in through the pillars of the gate, 

Down aisles of shadow windowed with 
the moon. 

By meads with the still stars communi- 
cant. 

Past heaven-bosoming pool and pooled 
stream, 

Until he saw, through tangled fern and 
vine. 

The Tree, where God had made its hab- 
itation : 

And crouched above the shape that had 
been Eve, 

With savage, listening frame and sidelong 
eyes, 229 

Cain waited for the coming of the dawn. 



I 



PART II 
CRITICAL COMMENTS 



FOREWORD TO CRITICAL COMMENTS 

The following critical comments afford as a whole a brief history o-f 
American poetry. The single studies prepared by Frank M. Webster and 
George W. Sherburn, and the six units written by Howard M. Jones, are 
indicated respectively by the initials W, S, and J. The remainder by the 
editor, are undesignated. 

The book lists have been reduced to low terms. Most of the volumes 
included should be on the shelves of the average college or normal school 
library, or should be available for reserve use in university courses. It 
has not been considered necessary, or even advisable, to multiply references 
to works which treat of various authors. Unless the passages are of unusual 
interest they are not mentioned in the short lists. The more important 
of the general works are as follows: 

Books on the Whole Period 
History and Cjiticism-^ 

History of American Poetry, J. L. Onderdonck. 

American Literature, C. F. Richardson, 2 vols. 

Poets of America,. E.. C. Stedman. 

History of American Literature, W. P. Trent. 

Cambridge History of American Literature, W. P. Trent and Others, 

2 vols. (In preparation.) 
Literary History of America, Barrett Wendell. 
America in Literature, G. E. Woodberry. 
Southern Writers, W. M. Baskerville. 
Literature of the South, M. J. Moses. 
American Lands and Letters, Doxiald G. Mitchell. 

Collections — 

Cyclopedia o£ American Literature, E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck, 2 vols. 

Poets and Poetry of America, R. W. Griswold. 

Poems of American History, B. E. Stevenson. 

Library of American Literature, E. C. Stedman and E. M. Hutchinson, 

II vols. 
Library of Southern Literature, C. W. Kent, 15 vols. 
Poems of American Patriotism, Chosen by Brander Matthews. 

593 



594 AMERICAN POETRY 

Books on the Coloniai, Period 

History and Criticism — 

American Verse, 1625-1807, W. B. Otis. 

The Spirit of the American Revolution as Revealed in the Poetry of 

the Period, S. W. Patterson. 
History of American Literature, 1607- 1765, M. C. Tyler, 2 vols. 
Literary History of the American Revolution, M. C. Tyler, 2 vols. 

Special Collection — 

Early American Writers, W. B. Cairns. 

Books on the Nineteenth Century 

History and Criticism — 

American Prose Masters, W. C. Brownell. 

The Poetry and Poets of America, Churton Collins. 

Contemporaries, T. W. Higginson. 

My Literary Friends and Acquaintances, W. D. Howells. 

My Literary Passions, W. D. Howells. 

The New England Poets, W. C. Lawton. 

A Fable for Critics, J. R. Lowell. 

Criticisms in Complete Works of E. A. Poe. 

Old Friends, William Winter. 

History of American Literature since 1870, F. L. Pattee. 

American Poets and Their Theology, A. H. Strong. 



ANNE BRADSTREET (1612-1672) 

Anne Bradstreet was born in England in 1612. Her father, Thomas 
Dudley, during her childhood, was steward of the estate of the Puritan 
Earl of Lincoln, in whose library it seems likely that she made her acquain- 
tance with the works of Spenser and Du Bartas, and with North's Plutarch. 
She was married to Simon Bradstreet in 1628, and in 1630 came with her 
husband and her father to Massachusetts. Both men became eminent in 
colonial affairs. After many changes of home, the Bradstreets settled, 
in 1644, at Andover, where she lived until her death in 1672. She was 
the mother of eight children, among whose descendants are the Channings, 
the two Richard H. Danas, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips, and 
Charles Eliot Norton. In 1650 there was printed in London a collection 
of her poems, which were attributed by her agent, the Rev. John Wood- 
bridge, to "The Tenth Muse, Lately Sprung Up in America," and in less 
flowery language were ascribed to "a gentlewoman in those parts." 

/. Texts. 

The Works of Anne Bradstreet, in Prose and Verse, edited by John 
Harvard Ellis. Charlestown, 1867. This contains a valuable memoir. 




CRITICAL COMMENTS 595 

The Works of Mrs. Anne Bradstreet, together with her prose 
remains, and with an introduction by Charles Eliot Norton. The Club 
of Odd Volumes, 1897. 

77. Biography. 

Anne Bradstreet and her Time, by Helen Campbell. Boston, 1891. 
An Account of Anne Bradstreet, the Puritan Poetess, by Luther 
Caldwell. Boston, 1898. 

In writing of Anne Bradstreet, one is tempted either by an excess of 
literary patriotism to defend her as "the mother of poetry" in America, 
or by an excess of critical zeal to laugh at her as an example of the 
abysmal depths to which poetry sank when the Puritan fathers and mothers 
were using it as a pious exercise for penitent souls. But one cannot read 
long in the complete works of Mrs. Bradstreet without feeling that though 
she does not rise to heights which justify the position of motherhood in 
the poetic arts, neither does she sink so low that one can brush her aside 
in the brief history of American poetry. There is a quality in Anne Brad- 
street to be patriotically proud of. It is something to have in social or 
literary history a woman of spirit who, in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion, 
tramples under foot the customs of her times and breaks into speech 
which, however halting it may be, is a sane utterance of a frank personality. 
If she gives nothing else in her work, Mrs. Bradstreet at least discloses 
herself as a devout but trembling Christian in the hands of the awful 
God of the Puritans; as an obedient, loving, even passionate wife; as a 
watchful and affectionate mother. 

To her contemporaries, however, Anne Bradstreet was known and 
admired as the author of "a complete discourse and description of the 
four elements, constitutions, ages of man, seasons of the year; together 
with an exact epitome of the four monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, 
Grecian, Roman; also, a dialogue between Old England and New concern- 
ing the late troubles ; with divers other pleasant and serious poems." These 
were the ponderous efforts which she compiled largely before she was 
thirty, in the scant leisure she could obtain when her duties to her God, 
her husband, her family, and her home had been completed, and which 
were carried to London by her brother-in-law and published, in 1650, as 
the work of "The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America." The 
larger works in this volume, the rhymed pentameters on the "fours" and 
the "exact epitome," based on Sir Walter Raleigh's "History of the World," 
were the fruits of her love for the so-called metaphysical learning and 
writing of her own time and of her passion — it could scarcely have been 
less — for history. For the casual reader, this and much other material 
of the same general type in the 17th and other centuries possesses little 
interest. He is quite willing that the "Four Monarchies" gather dust with 
DuBartas's "Divine Week," Drayton's "The Barron's War," and Donne's 
"Anatomy of the World." 

To the "divers other pleasant and serious poems" he can turn with a 
different feeling. These afford contact with a real person. In the numer- 
ous epitaphs and panegyrics are presented a record of Anne Bradstreet's 



596 AMERICAN POETRY 

hero worship. In the poem to Queen Elizabeth, she sings of the glories 
of the queen's accomplishments and the liberty which must come to women 
as a result of her great work; in the lines to Sir Philip Sidney, she joins 
in the large chorus of poets who do honor to the virtues of this ideal 
nobleman ; in several poems she pays her highest literary respects to the 
French poet, DuBartas, whom she knew through the English translation 
of Joshua Sylvester; in the dedication to her father, she shows the good 
Governor Dudley a reverence and respect which is a bit more than filial ; 
and in the brief epitaph to her mother, she shows respect and reverence 
also, but in a less degree, as was due the weaker vessel. Finally, in the 
poem called "Contemplations," there appears a reverence and a worship 
of a different kind— a communion with the visible forms of nature, which 
suggests, in tone at least, "Thanatopsis." In the thirty-three seven-line 
stanzas which make up this poem, Mrs. Bradstreet reached a height which 
no other American, poet attained for a century. One admits the lack of 
sustained elevation throughout the poem, and one may question the rhyme, 
the meter, and the taste of some of the passages, but in many of the 
stanzas one cannot fail to recognize the hand and spirit of a real poet. 

The list of poets who are said to have influenced Mrs. Bradstreet in 
her writing is long enough to comprise a good-sized 17th century colonial 
library. But the chief influence is always reputed to be DuBartas. She 
herself admits an admiration which is enthusiastic but hopeless. One 
who has read sections of "The Divine Week," however, and followed his 
reading with the poems of Anne Bradstreet, cannot feel that she has 
seriously tried to pay him the flattery of imitation. Her verses jog along 
in fairly regular meter and with a sound common sense. Her Pegasus 
is an ambling pad. DuBartas, however, flies in large, if not majestic 
swoops on an unshod poetical Bucephalus, who has' fed not on the pleasant 
grass of a New England common, but on a sort of sugared hay, sweet, 
but heady. Of most of the faults of the poetry of her time, Mrs. Brad- 
street was guilty. Yet a certain innate sanity kept her from unrestrained 
indulgence in the pious puns and saintly conceits which rejoiced her 
Puritan brethren. We could wish that instead of this negative restraint 
she had made a more conscious effort toward the poetic self-expression of 
"Contemplations," but we must not forget that as a poet she was the 
product of her religion and her times. 

When all is said, however, it still remains apparent that the chief value 
of Anne Bradstreet to American literature is social rather than poetical. 
It would have been gratifying, of course, had she given more of her atten- 
tion to the history of her own time than to the vicissitudes of the Persian 
monarchy; had she told of her struggles with the elements in New Eng- 
land, rather than of the fanciful contests of Air, Fire, Earth, and Water; 
had she but pictured something of the physical facts of her hard existence 
in a new and uncouth environment, instead of presenting in allegory the 
Four Ages of Man. But there is in her poems something just as valu- 
able for an appreciation of the forefathers of our country as a description 
of corn plantation, Indian wars, church building, and domestic economy. 
She recorded the inner life not of a self-conscious divine, like Cotton 
Mather, nor a staid but susceptible elder, like Samuel Sewall, but of a poet. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 597 

a housewife, a mother of the days when our country was young — and the 
record gives us a new vision, a new understanding, of our history. 

W. 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY ELEGIES, SONGS AND EPIGRAMS 

It has become a fashion of American literary history to speak of 
Colonial verse as consisting of the poems by Anne Bradstreet and dog- 
gerel by other people ; to expound the point by a brief and sweeping clever- 
ness of phrase, and to reinforce it by quotations from the lowest abysses 
of the Bay Psalm book and the Wigglesworthian passage on the damna- 
tion of infants to "the easiest room in hell." Even Tyler,^ whose com- 
ments are really fair and finely critical, falls into the old temptation in 
accounting for what he calls "this unrestrained proclivity toward the 'lust 
of versification.'" "Perhaps, indeed, all this was their solitary condescen- 
sion to human frailty. The earthly element, the passion, the carnal taint, 
the vanity, the weariness, or whatever else it be that, in other men, works 
itself off in a pleasure journey, in a flirtation, in going to the play, or in a 
convivial bout, did in these venerable men exhaust itself in the sly dissipa- 
tion of writing verses." 

A^s a matter of fact, the inclination to write verse was indulged in by a 
large number of English-born, educated men, and though their work was 
never inspired, much of it was creditable, and all of it was evidence of an 
appetite for ingenuity in thought and for nicety in expression which were 
late Elizabethan characteristics. 

The passages selected for reprinting in this volume were chosen to illus- 
trate the workings of various types of mind during the middle quarters 
of the 17th century. The first is taken from the third book of "The New 
English Canaan," by Thomas Morton, a gentleman of Clifford's Inn, a 
graceless but amusing adventurer, an incorrigible anti-Puritan, who came 
to America in 1622 and died here in 1646, after a wild experience motivated 
by every sort of whimsical and outrageous misdemeanor, and interrupted 
by a series of deportations, arrests, imprisonments, and persecutions. It 
is in effect, therefore, a song of wanton and impudent defiance, first pub- 
lished as early as 1637. 

The next group appeared in 1647 in Nathaniel Ward's "Simple Cobbler 
of Agawam." In temper and purpose. Ward and his Cobbler were in 
extremest contrast to Morton and his Canaan. Ward was an ultra- 
conservative churchman, greatly disturbed by the encroachments of liberal 
toleration. He was, however, no less vigorous than Morton, writing with 
equal exuberance, often emulating the Euphuists in his prose intricacies, 
and often resorting to brief verse outbursts as to a literary safety-valve. 
Each in his way was marked by a striking superabundance of spirits. 

Nathaniel Ward also appears in the third group, the trio of verses 
in praise of Mrs. Bradstreet, which appeared in the Ellis edition of her 
collected works. Elegy was a fashion of the day, as all the remaining 
selections indicate. The next three are from "New England's Memorial," 

* See "History of American Literature, Colonial Period." M. C. Tyler, Vol. I, pp. 267-8. 



598 AMERICAN POETRY 

compiled by Nathaniel Morton (who, for the peace of his soul, should not 
be confused with the ribald Thomas of the same name), and they are 
included here as curious but only partially representative relics of that 
bygone time. 

Last of the set, is the lament for the hero of the ill-starred "Bacon's 
Rebellion," a composition written about 1676, in which ingenuity is 
replaced by deep feeling that at points gives rise to real eloquence. 
This lay unread among the so-called "Burwell Papers" for many genera- 
tions until printed in the Mass. Hist. Soc. Collections, Series 2, Vol. i, 
and reprinted with corrections in the Proceedings of the Mass. Hist. Soc. 
of I 866-1 867. 

MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH (1631-1705) 

The author of "The Day of Doom" was born in England in 1631. He 
was brought to America in 1638, was sent to Harvard, and received his 
A.B. in 1657. Ke had originally planned to become a physician, but 
changed toward the end of his college course, and during the years just 
following, while he was a tutor, he prepared for the ministry. From 1656 
till his death he was nominally pastor of the church in Maiden, just out- 
side of Boston, although during seventeen years of ill health, interspersed 
between 1663 and 1686, the duties were performed by younger men. From 
1686 to 1705 he was in active service both as minister and doctor. "The 
Day of Doom" was published in 1662, and "Meat out of the Eater, or 
Meditations concerning . . . Affliction," in 1669. A third poem, "God's 
Controversy with New England," written in the year of a great drought, 
1662, was not published until 1871. 

/. Texts. 

The day of doom; or a poetical description of the great and last 
judgment : with other poems. With a memoir by J. W. Dean, Edited 
by W. H. Burr. New York, 1867. 

Other editions appeared in 1662, 1673 (two others before 1700), 
1701, 1711, 1715, 1751,1811, 1828. 

God's Controversy with New England. Pub. Mass. Hist. Soc, May, 
1871, pp. 83-98, 

Meat out of the eater : or meditations concerning the necessity, end 
and usefulness of afflictions, etc. Fourth edition. Boston, 1689, 

//. Biography. 

Memoir of, by J. W. Dean. Second edition. Albany, 1871, 

M. W.* — earliest poet among Harvard graduates, S. A. Greene. 

Proc. Mass. Hist. Soc, Jan., 1895. 

In Biographical Sketches of graduates of Harvard University. 

Cambridge, 1873, I, pp. 259-286. 

"The Day of Doom," the work on which the Reverend Michael Wiggles- 
worth's fame is most securely founded, gave the title to a little duodecimo 
of 1662, in which it was the chief work. The full title reads, "The Day of 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 599 

Doom /or, a/ Description/ Of the Great and Last / Judgment. / with a 
short, discourse / about / Eternity. Eccles. 12.14 / For God shall bring 
every work into judgment with every secret thing, whether it be good, or 
whether it be evil." It was printed, probably, in Cambridge. In the edition 
of 1773, "The Day of Doom" itself occupies sixty-seven pages of eight-lined 
ballad stanzas. Then comes a little meditation in heroic couplets, 115 
lines. Then the "Discourse on Eternity," then a "Postscript to the Reader," 
and finally "A Song of Emptiness to fill up the Empty Pages following 
Vanity of Vanities." In all these successive addenda, the type grows 
progressively smaller, until the reader, whose eyes dim under the accumu- 
lating task, deciphers with difficulty the last line of the last page, 

Delight thyself in that which wocth.leas is. 

"The Day of Doom" is composed of 224 stanzas. After an invocation 
to Christ, rather than to the Muses, whom the poet abominates, the day 
of doom is announced, the hosts appear before Christ enthroned, the sheep 
are placed on His right, and the doctrine of Election expounded, and the 
goats on His left appear in successive groups for trial. Each plead in 
turn — hypocrites, civil honest men, those who died in youth, those who 
were misled by the example of the elect, those who could not interpret 
the Scriptures aright, those who, while living, feared martyrdom more than 
hell torment, those who saw no good in attempting to deserve a salvation 
which no good works could assure, and, finally, those who died in infancy. 
All are answered and controverted from the throne, and all are swept 
off to a common damnation, save the infants, for whom a relenting Provi- 
dence reserves "the easiest room in hell." 

Three-fourths of this is undiluted theology in jingling rhyme. From 
the beginning of the trial to the concluding wholesale verdict (stanzas 
xxi-cciv), there is not a tableau of any sort, and not a figure of speech 
which had not been made familiar by constant pulpit iteration. With the 
opening and closing stanzas, about twenty at each end, there is some 
dramatic quality in action and staging, though not enough to account for 
the popularity of the verses for the next hundred years. This popular 
liking of the thing was quite unliterary, but depended on a combination of 
two salient features : "The Day of Doom" expressed the deepest convic- 
tions of a consecrated people, and it appealed to the ballad appetite of a 
folk who were otherwise starved for any nourishment of that sort. They 
repeated the stanzas as they might have repeated "Chevy Chase" or "Johnny 
Armstrong" ; they believed them with an intensity of devotion which had 
already impelled them to brave the wrath of the church and the terrors 
of an unknown sea. So it became the "best seller" of its century, was 
memorized together with the catechism, and became "the solace," as Lowell 
says with a twinkle, "of every fireside, the flicker of the pine-knots by 
which it was conned perhaps adding a livelier relish to its premonitions 
of eternal combustion." 

With comments on this work, the poetic doom of Michael Wigglesworth 
is usually pronounced, with attempts at supercilious epigram; or, if any 
further attention is conceded him, appeal is made on the one side to "The 
Bay Psalm Book," or on the other to his "Meat Out of the Eater," for 



600 AMERICAN POETRY 

evidence that the Puritan parson as a genus was incapable of writing 
poetry of any kind, or even passable verse. What could be expected of a 
mind which could evolve such stuff as this? 

Make out for help in time 

Lest by some subtile will, 

Or hidden craft to thee unknown, 

The Serpent thee beguile. 

Temptations are like poyson, 

Provide an Antidote : 

'Tis easier mischief to prevent. 

Than cure it when 'tis got.i^ 

Yet, in the never quoted lines immediately following "The Day of 
Doom" — a poem, without a title, on the vanity of human wishes — Michael 
Wigglesworth gives proofs of huma-n kindliness and of poetic power. In 
these earnest lines, Wigglesworth shows a mastery of fluent verse, a con- 
trol of poetic imagery, and a gentle yearning for the souls' welfare of 
his parishioners, which is the utterance of the pastor rather than of the 
theologian. For a moment, God ceases to be angry, Christ stands pleading 
without the gate, and the good pastor utters a poem upon the neglected 
theme, "The Kingdom of God is within you" : 

Fear your great Maker with a child-like awe. 

Believe his Grace, love and obey his Law. 

This is the total work of man, and this 

Will crown you here with Peace and there with Bliss. 

This poem is much the best of all that Wigglesworth wrote, although, 
like all his others, it cannot be read and understood without thought of 
the New England generation for which it was written. Yet it proves 
beyond peradventure that "The Day of Doom" was a concession to popular 
taste in both form and content, and that the man who wrote it was capable 
of finer things. He was not a great poet, but he was in truth a man of 
poetic feeling who was hardened and repressed by the temper of his age. 



R. LEWIS (Dates Unknown) 

Of the author of the "Journey from Patapsco to Annapolis" almost 
nothing is certainly known. We may be fairly certain, however, that he 
was born about the beginning of the century, was educated at Eton, and, 
possibly, had some training at Oxford. He was a friend of Governor 
Benedict Leonard Calvert, and came to Annapolis, probably about 1727, 
perhaps through the Governor's inducements, to become there a teacher 
of Latin and Greek. Among his works, we may list the following: 

Muscipula: The Mouse Trap, or the Battle of the Cambrians & 
the Mice; a poem by Edward Holdsworth, translated into English by 
R. Lewis. Annapolis, 1728. (Reprinted in the Maryland Historical 
Society Fund Publication, No. 36, in 1899.) 

A Journey from Patapsco in Maryland to Annapolis, April 4, 1730. 

* Wigglesworth, "Light in Darkness," Song VIII, Stanza 7. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 601 

(Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for March, 1732, Vol. II, 
pp. 669-671. Reprinted in Eustace Budgell's Bee for April 7 to 14, 
-. I733> Vol. I, pp. 393-404; again in Carey's American Museum for 1791, 
Vol. IX, Appendix I, pp. 9-16; and also in Edward D. Neill's "Terra 
Mariae" (1867), pp. 239-252 — see also p. 214. The text here reprinted 
is that of the Gentleman's Magazine.) 

Carmen Seculare. (Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 
April and May, 1733, Vol. Ill, pp. 209-210 and 264.) 

A Rhapsody. (Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for July, 1734, 
Vol. IV, p. 385. This poem is almost certainly by Lewis.) 

For other poems possibly by Lewis, though probably not his, see 
the Gentleman's Magazine, VII, 760; XI, 603; XII, 653-654, and 
XIII, 46. 

There is an interesting preface on Lewis in the reprint of the 
"Muscipula," and brief but enthusiastic appreciations of the **^Journey" in 
Budgell's Bee (I, 393), and in Neill's "Terra Mariae," p. 214. Dr. Bernard 
C. Steiner has published in the Maryland Historical Magazine, Vol. Ill, 
pp. 191-227, 283-342, an article on Governor Benedict Leonard Calvert, 
which throws incidental light on Lewis and his environment. Aside from 
the. brief discussion of the "Muscipula" in Otis's "American Verse, 1625- 
1807" (pp. 258-260), Lewis's work seems to be unmentioned by recent 
writers on American literature. 

Such neglect, especially of the poem here reprinted, is unwarranted. 
The "Journey from Patapsco to Annapolis" is one of the best poems of 
its day in America. It is, of course, a frank and remarkably prompt 
imitation of Thomson's "Seasons." The "Seasons" came out during the 
years 1726-1730, and this poem, though published in 1732, bears the date 
of 1730 in its title. The one of the "Seasons" which the poem most re- 
sembles is "Summer" (1727), though "Spring" (1728), has possibly left 
a few traces of influence. In structure the poem follows the pattern of 
"L Allegro," "II Penseroso," and especially of "Summer," in presenting 
the pleasures of a day and a night. It begins with a picture of dawn and 
ends with the reflections of late evening. It has a certain advantage over 
its models in that it follows an easy, natural narrative order, instead of 
mixing narrative with reflection, as Thomson and Milton do. In selection 
and arrangement, the episodes of the poem are consciously, though not 
abjectly, parallel to those used in "Summer." 

In form, the poem sticks to the couplet, instead of attempting the more 
unusual and more difficult blank verse of Thomson. The couplet, how- 
ever, is not used in Pope's fashion; it is frequently varied by triplets, by 
run-on lines, and by shifting the pause in the fashion popularized by 
"Paradise Lost." The diction is at times reminiscent of Shakespeare, 
Milton, Pope, and, among others, Thomson especially; and yet the phrases 
are usually the honest, sincere registering of Lewis's own sense-impres- 
sions. Much of the conventional Latinization, many of the epithets that 
are interpretative rather than sensuous, are due to Milton and Thomson. 
Such are the "ambient air," the "languid tides," the hawk that "predes- 
tinates his prey," and many other phrases. More notable, however, are 



602 AMERICAN POETRY 

the details that, to use the romantic catchword, bring back the eye to the 
object. Lewis is one of the earliest American poets to be predominantly 
sensuous in his appeal : the "floating foliage" of the pines struck by the 
rising sun, the iridescence of the humming bird, the pattering noise of the 
hail (Thomson's hail was "sonorous"), the fragrance of the sassafras buds 
— these are but a few of the exquisite sensations that Lewis records for 
us with convincing and unpretentious honesty. 

In such a poem, these pictures — or better, these "images," as they would 
have been called in Lewis's day — are of supreme importance. The notable 
thing about the images here is that they are consistently and typically 
local. The English critics who were surprised to find Bryant's nature 
passages so easily transferable to English scenery, would have found Lewis 
satisfactorily American. He carefully turns his back on the flowers and 
trees of Thomson's "Spring" (lines 530 and following), and substitutes 
the pacone, the crowfoot, the cinque-foil, the red-bud and the sassafras; 
he delights in the restful green of wheat. His praise of the mocking bird 
and of the humming bird is sufficient evidence of his des-ire to celebrate 
the beauties of Maryland. Indeed, it is likely that these two birds, as well 
as many other bits of American nature, make their first appearance in 
poetry here. Lewis seeks not so much to report the look of these things 
as to express his keen enjoyment of them. 

The poem is, then, aside from its thoroughly American details, signifi- 
cant in the history of American poetry. Before 1730, the Rev. Mather 
Byles, of Boston, had sworn allegiance to the poetry of Alexander Pope; 
here arise, probably, the first signs of the Thomson influence — which was, 
of course, to be more permanent and valuable than the Pope tradition. 
The promptness with which the provinces were imitating the popular 
poets of the mother country is interesting. It augurs an attention to things 
poetic not always ascribed to our ancestors. In fact, the whole career 
of Lewis, brief though it may have been, suggests that there may have 
been much more poetry written, in America in the i8th century than has 
been commonly supposed, and that the poetry written may have been 
much better than has been thought. It was mostly published in obscure 
nooks, or in England, and has not as yet been thoroughly reclaimed. 

S. 

THE ALMANACS OF NATHANIEL AMES 

"The Essays, Humor and Poems of Nathaniel Ames, Father and Son, of 
Dedham, Massachusetts, from their Almanacks, 1726-1774. With notes 
and Comments, by Sam. Briggs. Cleveland, 1891." 

The first half of the i8th century was relatively barren in poetry, even 
in America, where there had been little enough before. No volumes of 
verse seem to have been produced. Some work, such as that of Mr. Lewis, 
got into print through the columns of the English periodicals, and some 
through the American almanacs. 

The almanac, "the most despised, most prolific, most indispensable 
of books . . . the very quack, clown, pack-horse, and pariah of modern 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 603 

literature," had enjoyed a growing vogue from the beginnings of the 
Colonial period. After "The Freeman's Oath," the first piece of printing 
in this country was a Mr. Pierce's almanac, printed by Stephen Daye in 
Cambridge in 1639. Boston entered the field in 1676, Philadelphia in 1686, 
New York in 1697.. The first one appeared in Rhode Island in 1728, and 
in Virginia in 1731. • "Poor. Richard" made his debut in 1732. Among the 
almanac editors who prospered through long careers, three are most famous, 
Robert B. Thomas, publisher of "The Old Farmer's Almanac," from 1793 
to 1847;^ Benjamin Franklin, founder in 1732 and author until 1748 of 
the "Poor Richard," who continued to prosper on his poverty until 
1796, and earliest of the three, Nathaniel Ames, of Dedham, Mass., an 
author, editor, and publisher of his own series from 1726 to 1764, who was 
succeeded by a son of the same name until 1774. 

In the almanacs of Nathaniel Ames, 2 father and son, the literary element 
— to use the term very charitably — was a striking feature. This included 
the conventional introduction of "interlined wit and humor," the less com- 
mon employment of didactic essays on astronomy, theology, black-art, 
prosaic discussions on personal hygiene, and Addisonian pages for the 
ladies and for the gentlemen, and, finally, the use of a considerable amount 
of quoted and original verse. The verse appears from the first number 
in every issue, and bulks up to much more than the other two features 
combined. Among the English poets quoted are Pope, Dryden, Addison, 
Thomson, Milton, and Sir Richard Blackmore, but more often the verse 
is by Ames himself or one of his countrymen. 

The most common method of weaving it into the almanacs, is by print- 
ing it as a series of inscriptions above the successive months. Sometimes 
the verses so introduced are appropriate to the changing seasons, but not 
infrequently they are simply twelve sections of one consecutive piece of 
poetical moralization upon life, and sometimes for the same year these 
two appeals are rudely combined. In several of the issues are forewords, 
such as those herein reprinted for 1738, which show a journalistic inclina- 
tion to supply what the public wanted, by placating the grave with a 
serious address, and the gay with a frivolous one. From time to time, in 
addition to * forewords and monthly captions, there are appended whole 
selections, which, for want of a better word, we must call poems. In the 
earlier years, these are more often related to the wars of the Lord, and 
in the later ones to fighting with the French and Indians ; but in almost 
all cases they are pertinent, as almanac verse should be, to contemporary 
events or interests. Thus, in 1741, the period of "The Great Awakening," 
there is a challenge "To the Scoffers at Whitefield's Preaching," but in 1760 
an outburst of triumph "On the Reduction of Quebec by Wolfe." The 
rhymed chronologies of 1745 and 1763 are fascinating records of the i8th 
century orthodox attitude toward history and the mountain-peaks of human 
achievement. The naive near-sightedness of the times was humanly frank 
rather than humanly unusual, like the vanity of a debutante who will dally 
before the mirror, with Pike's Peak waiting outside the window. 

* For information on Thomas and a great deal of interesting data about almanacs in 
general, see "The Old Farmer and his Almanac," by G. L. Kittredge, Boston, 1904, 
8 "The Almanacs of Nathaniel Ames, 1726-1774," 



604 AMERICAN POETRY 

In form, the verses of Ames and his contributors are not without claims 
to attention. They are uneven, and run all the lower half of the gamut — 
for none are more than fair; but in this mediocrity they partake of the 
period in which they were written. Dryden, Addison, and Thomson 
served as models of convention to the i8th century mind. What the 20th 
century applauds in them are the qualities which make them egregious 
rather than conventional. The diction and prosody of Ames and his 
models, therefore, are the things against which Wordsworth protested 
in his essay of 1798, and they are the point of departure for the poets of 
the 19th century. Thus, they are still interesting to the student, not as 
immortal poetry, but as the kind of poetry that a certain generation was 
content to read and write, and as a monumental evidence of the fact that 
the desire for poetry will survive almost any vicissitudes. 

FRANCIS HOPKINSON (1737-1791) 

Hopkinson was born in Philadelphia, October 2, 1737. He was first 
matriculant in the College of Philadelphia, receiving his bachelor's degree 
in 1757, and his master's in 1760. He was admitted to the bar in 1761, 
visited England in 1766- 1767, and from 1772 to 1776 was holder of offices 
under the Crown. He was, nevertheless, one of the signers of the Declara- 
tion of Independence. With the approach of the war, he became an effec- 
tive spokesman for the colonies. His most famous contributions were 
"A Pretty Story— The Old Farm and the New Farm : A Political Allegory 
by Peter Grievous, Esq.," 1774, and "The Battle of the Kegs," a ballad 
of 1778. He wrote, also, graceful verse and prose on the life and manners 
of his time, and was distinguished as one of the most versatile men of his 
day. He was statesman, jurist, scientist, musician, poet, and painter. He 
died on May 9, 1791. 

/. Texts. 

The Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings of Francis 
Hopkinson, 3 vols. Philadelphia, 1792. The latter half of the third 
volume contains in separate paging, 1-204, his Poems on Several 
Subjects. 

The Old Farm and the New Farm: A Political Allegory. With 
an introduction and historical notes by B. J. Lossing. New York, 
1864. 

//. Biography. 

A Biographical Sketch of Francis Hopkinson, by C. R. Hildeburn, 
Philadelphia, 1878. 

///. Criticism. 

The Literary History of the American Revolution, by M. C. Tyler, 
Vol. I, Chap. VIII, pp. 163-171; Chap. XII, pp. 279-292; Chap. XXII, 
pp. 487-490, and Vol. 11, Chap. XXX, pp. 130-157. 

Francis Hopkinson, Man of Affairs and Letters, Mrs. A. R. Marble, 
New Eng. Mag., Vol XXVII, p. 289. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 605 

As a figure in the history of American literature, Francis Hopkinson 
must be estimated for his prose, for his verse, and for his genial and 
pervasive influence as a cultured gentleman. Two and one-half of the 
three volumes of his collected works are filled with prose essays, which 
are worth reading both as literature and as history. As polite literature, 
they include meditations, reveries, dreams, and innocuous light essays of 
the Addisonian type, discourses on education, both grave and gay, and 
popular commentaries on science and statecraft, a programme extending all 
the way from a "Speech of a post in the assembly room" to "Observations 
on the bill for amending the penal laws." Considered as history, they 
include a number of open letters to the newspapers, and certain prose 
satires, of which three, "A Pretty Story," of 1774; "A Prophecy," of 1776, 
and "The New Roof," of 1778, are as important and effective as any trio 
from one hand written during the Revolution. 

As a poet, Hopkinson, stands quite in contrast to Trumbull, Freneau, 
Dwight, and Barlow in not having succumbed to the prevailing fever for 
epic writing. The whole volume of his poetry bulks to slightly over 200 
pages, and includes more than sixty titles. He attempted no sustained 
flights. The titles to his poems reveal their complete allegiance to the 
conventions of the i8th century. There are Miltonic imitations, songs, 
sentiments, hymns, a fable, and a piece of advice to a young lady. There 
are occasional poems, including birthday and wedding greetings, prologues 
and epilogues at the theatre, elegies, and rhymed epitaphs. There is an 
"Epigram on the death of a favorite lap dog" and "Verses written in a 
blank book which once belonged to Shenstone" — verses which betray 
Hopkinson's iSth century opinion that Shenstone wrote books which were 
not also blank. 

These various poems of what may be called the stock varieties, pos- 
sessed many of the excellences of their kind. Hopkinson was never 
pompous, his sense of humor restrained him from the use of long and 
empty locutions, he was almost always facile and graceful, and he was 
always in complete control of his emotions; 

My gen'rous heart disdains 
The slave of love to be, 
I scorn his servile chains. 
And boast my liberty. 
This whining 
And pining 
And wasting with care. 
Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair. 

This attitude of mind is well adapted to the composition of satire in prose 
and verse. The "Political ballad written in 1777" is a ballad only in 
appearance. What Hopkinson achieved with admirable skill in these 
verses was the employment of narration in ballad metre to convey a 
satirical message. It was more nearly a fable than a ballad. It had, to 
be sure, none of the imaginative subtlety of Keats's "La Belle Dame sans 
Merci," but also none of the heroic simplicity of "the grand old ballad 
of Sir Patrick Spens." Again, in 1778, Hopkinson composed "The New 
Roof," with equal effectiveness, in prose and in verse, writing it apparently 
as a prose allegory and then putting the point of it into a song. So, but 



606 AMERICAN POETRY 

in less degree, "The Battle of the Kegs" depends for success upon its mock- 
heroic quality and the sop to Cerberus contained in^ its naughty allusion 
to Sir William Howe. As a ballad imitation, it is admirable in its rugged 
irregularities. It was not done in Hopkinson's style, though Hopkinson's 
smile gleams out* from between the lines. 

Thus, behind all his prose and verse, there appears always the charming 
and complex personality of this talented gentleman. He had accomplish- 
ments enough to qualify, him as a full-fledged dilettante, but abilities 
sufficient to make him a'n astute and learned judge. His social graces 
brought him from Lord North political favors which his native strength 
enabled him to sacrifice for the Colonial cause. He had the qualities of 
heroism but none of its manners. There was a good deal of Franklin in 
him — his learning, his interest in science and literature, his humor, his 
complete and practical devotion to the things of the^ day. And there was 
a good deal in him, also, of Chesterfield, in his love of the refinements 
of life and in his mastery of the art of getting on. 

The praise of his contemporaries is significant. John Adams wrote 
to his wife in August, 1776, the day after he had been at Peale's studio: 
"At this shop I met Mr. Francis Hopkinson, late a mandamus councillor 
of New Jersey, now a member of the Continental Congress, who . . . 
was liberally educated and is a painter and a poet. I have a curiosity to 
penetrate a little deeper into the bosom of this curious gentleman. . . . 
He is one of your pretty little curious, ingenious men. ... I have not 
met with anything in natural history more amusing and entertaining than 
his personal appearance — yet he is genteel and well bred and is very 
social." And then the rugged New Englander concluded half wistfully, 
"I wish I had leisure and tranquillity of mind to amuse myself with those 
elegant and ingenious arts of painting, sculpture, statuary, architecture 
and music. But I have not." Yet Dr. Rush wrote of this "pretty little" 
man that the Revolution and the formation of the Union could not be 
fully understood "unless much is ascribed to the irresistible influence of 
the ridicule which he poured forth from time to time upon the enemies 
of those great political events." 

JOHN TRUMBULL (1750-1831) 

Trumbull was born in Waterbury, Connecticut, April 24, 1750. As a 
youthful prodigy he passed the Yale entrance examinations at the age 
of seven, read very extensively up to his actual admission six years later, 
and received his A.B. in 1767 and his A.M. in 1770, reading eagerly in 
the "polite literature" of the moderns and ancients. His chief writings 
included a series of Addisonian essays, entitled "The Meddler," in The 
Boston Chronicle, September, 1769-January, 1770, and "The Correspondent" 
in The Connecticut Journal and New Haven Post-Boy, February-July, 1770, 
and February-September, 1773; "The Progress of Dulness," Part I, August, 
1772; Part n, January, 1773; Part IH, July, 1773; "M'Fingal," Canto I, 
1776. This was later divided into two with the completion of "M'Fingal, 
A Modern Epic Poem, in Four Cantos," in 1782. He shared also in the 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 607 

composition of "The Anarchiad," in 1786-1787, with David Humphreys, 
Joel Barlow, and Lemuel Hopkins. In 1773 he was admitted to the bar, 
and during a long career served with increasing distinction. He died 
in 1831. 

/. Texts. 

The first complete edition, from which the selections in this 
volume are quoted, appeared presumably under his own supervision, 
with an introduction and notes, as The Poetical Works of John Trum- 
bull. Hartford, 1820, 2 vols. 

A useful piece of modern editing is M'Fingal : an epic poem. With 
introduction and notes, by B. J. Lossing. New York, i860. 

//. Criticism. 

The best critical discussion of Trumbull is in The Literary History 
of the American Revolution, by M. C. Tyler, Vol. I, Chap. IX, pp. 188- 
221, and Chap. XX, pp. 427-450. 

It is frequently said that infant prodigies die young or grow into 
mediocrity. John Trumbull, however, lived to old age and eminence. Only 
by forcing the issue can he be said to have at all fitted the formula. He 
did give great literary promise as a youth, and his literary career v/as 
completed as early as that of Keats; but only those who care to regard 
legal eminence as a literary catastrophe can take any comfort in the 
non-fulfilment of his precocity. 

His poetry, written between 1770 and 1782, may conveniently be con- 
sidered in two groups. The first is the modest array of fourteen short 
poems at the end of the second volume of his 1820 edition, and the second 
is made up of his two long satires, which, in bulk as well as importance, 
far overbalance all the rest. Of the first group, eleven were written 
between 1770 and 1774, when he was frankly eager, impressionable and 
imitative. Quite naturally, he translated from Virgil; most of the English 
poets since the Restoration had taken side excursions into this field. As 
a young and orthodox New Englander, he matched these classical tributes 
off with Biblical paraphrases, after the fashion of Watts. He did two 
fables, like Gay, and gave "Advice to Ladies of a Certain Age," like 
Lyttleton and every other true i8th century Englishman. With the echoes 
of Gray's "Elegy" in his ears, he wrote an elegy on his friend, St. John, 
and therewith indulged in the pleasurable melancholy of the "graveyard 
poets," who were later to influence the youthful Bryant. Apparently, he 
had no other ambition for himself or for his fellow poets in America 
than to 

bid their lays with lofty Milton vie; 
Or wake from nature's themes the moral song, _ 
And shine with Pope, with Thompson and with Young. 
This land her Swift and Addison shall view, 
The former honors equalled by the new; 
Here shall some Shakspeare charm the rising age, 
And hold in magic chains the listening stage; 
A second Watts shall string the heavenly lyre, 
And other muses other bards inspire. 



608 AMERICAN POETRY 

In these poems, Trumbull showed an unqualified literary conservatism. 
What was good enough for his fathers — the best of contemporary English 
literature — was good enough for him. The idea that a new country might 
evolve new ways of thinking and new forms of expression does not seem 
to have occurred to him. In "The Progress of Dulness," however, written 
right in the midst of these other performances, he came down to facts as 
he had observed them in New Haven, and in "the keen spirit of critical 
observation," which he later attributed to himself, he began his work as 
a satirist. 

This production is on the interwoven themes of three New England 
types of young people, Tom, Dick, and Harry — although Harry was 
transformed to Harriet Simper, who, after a varied career as a coquette, 
was first jilted by Dick Hairbrain and then doomed to an inglorious mar- 
riage with Tom Brainless. The third part, reprinted in this volume, is 
devoted to the ill-fated heroine. The first and second are concerned with 
the two boys, who were for better or for worse enrolled at a typical 
American college. Tom, incapable of any other career, was sent there 
by his fond parents, tutored in preparation, and pushed through his en- 
trance examinations by combined zeal of father and teacher. A few 
days were enough to weary him of a routine which 

In the same round condemned each day 
To study, read, recite and play. 

A short programme of non-preparation, tardiness, and absence made him 
subject to "the college evil," eye-trouble, the malady which even to-day 

Still makes its cap'tal seat the head. 

In all diseases 'tis expected _ 

The weakest parts be most infected. 

In spite of all, however, he survived to receive his degree at the end of 

Four years at college dozed away. 
In sleep and slothfulness and play. 

Yet of the academic leopard's spots, Tom was one of the smaller ones, 
for Trumbull showed, by means of Dick's experience, that college was 
a place for something even worse than the harmless incompetent. Young 
Hairbrain was quite aware of the joys that a liberal education was to 
bring him, and on his arrival broke out in rapturous salutation to the 
halls 

Where wealth and pride and riot wait. 
And each choice spirit finds his mate. 

Trumbull was so eager to drive home his strictures on the college, that 
occasionally he interrupted his story with direct comment. He agreed 
with Hopkinson and Freneau in deploring the domination of the classics, 
and, in his introduction, carried the war against most other subjects. 
Finally, with reference to what we now dignify by the title of extra- 
classroom activities, Dick's "constant course was retrograde." 

His talents proved of highest price 
At all the arts of cards and dice; 
His genius turned with greatest skill / 
To whist, loo, cribbage, and quadrille. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 609 

With an indictment which rejected the collegian's studies as useless and 
his diversions as pernicious, Trumbull's criticism gave ample historical 
ground for New England's establishment of a day of prayer for colleges. 
There is an almost Grecian completeness in the punishment of Harriet's 
frivolity by committing her to a dilemma between two boys so inclined 
and so brought up ; but Trumbull seems not to have overdrawn the picture. 
The facts are amply attested by the other critics who were interested in 
the education of i8th century young Americans. 

This was genuine home-made satire. It was in an established English 
form made celebrated by Butler and Dryden, and it exemplified a general 
attitude toward life which prevailed in the British light-essayists from 
Addison on. It even smacked of, the semi-republicanism which went to 
the length of adopting middle and lower class characters as literary themes 
(though this point should not be overstrained, since they have always been 
considered fair game for ridicule), and it furnished many a neatly turned 
epigram for the non-believer in college education. Its un-English quality 
lay in the fact that it was clearly located in New Haven, Connecticut, and 
not in any English university town. It was drawn from the life. This 
was a non-English or provincial quality, rather than in any sense an 
American one, for the poem, was written "by a young subject of George III, 
whose feeling was doubtless that "the colleges, like literature, in America, 
could do no better than live up to the best English traditions. It was 
provincial like Trumbull's "Lines addressed to Messrs. Dwight and Barlow," 
which warned them against the dangers of publishing in "Yon proud Isle," 
and of thus invoking the malignance of the Grub-street reviewers, a protest 
written from the provinces in a tone and idiom long before made fashion- 
able by Pope from a few miles up the Thames. 

With the events of 1775, Trumbull went one step farther, for "M'Fingal" 
was clearly the work of a revolutionist. One advance hint of rebellion 
was oracularly announced in his "Elegy on the Times," written in late 
1774, but it was then an infant concept swaddled in poetic circumlocutions. 
"Tyrant vengeance" and "bloody standards" appear on the plain where 
"spring dissolves in softening showers in vain." Independence is at last 
to come in a land where "The flowery garden breathes a glad perfume," 
but it is to be achieved not so much by force of arms as by the benignant 
exercise of poetic justice. "M'Fingal," written in the next year, is a 
different sort of rebelliousness. It is a well-meaning citizen who has gone 
into training camp and has stripped off poetic fat at the rate of two 
syllables of adjective to every line. 

It is built around the dissensions that arose in a typical New England 
trwn between Whigs and Tories, led by M'Fingal, the Loyalist, and 
Honorius, the arch-rebel. The first two cantos (1,500 lines, originally pub- 
lished without division) are the day-long debate between the two, inter- 
rupted only by the noon adjournment for luncheon. Honorius made the 
now time-honored appeals to the Englishman's love of liberty, and M'Fingal 
retorted with addresses to his respect for law and authority. The speeches 
were very long but very vigorous, full of barbed personal and local allu- 
sion, and so turned that whether spoken with the skill and fervor of 
Honorius or the maladroitness of M'Fingal, they were all equally effective 



610 AMERICAN POETRY 

in behalf of the Revolutionary cause. The debate was adjourned in gen- 
eral confusion sine die, and the poem was left thus unconcluded for six 
years. 

After the defeat of Cornwallis in October, 1781, the work was carried 
on to completion by an account of what was said and done later in the 
same day and evening. The third canto quoted in this volume, more full 
of action than the others, tells how M'Fingal was first raised on the 
liberty pole, and then tarred, feathered and left sticking to its base. The 
fourth, after his escape, presents a melancholy assemblage in a Tory 
cellar, to whom M'Fingal prophesies, from the viewpoint of 1775, the events 
that every one knew in 1781. Yet even here, as he was advising sub- 
mission to the inevitable, the enemy stormed the hiding-place, from which 
he vanished forever into the night. "The flight of M'Fingal," says the 
author's genial note, "forms the grand catastrophe of this immortal work. ♦ 
So sublime a denouement, as the French critics term it, never appeared 
before in Epic Poetry, except that of the Hero turning Papist, in the 
Henriade of Voltaire." 

As a whole, the work is an interesting combination of bookishness and 
popular journalism. Trumbull's mind was in some respects like Macaulay's 
— it was packed with literary lore and able to present this without over- 
whelming the reader. He referred to Homer, Aristophanes, Virgil, Ovid, 
Livy; to Shakespeare, Milton, Butler, Blackmore; to men as far apart 
as Berkeley and Rabelais; to the popular fiction of the day; but he never 
made a boast of his learning. Thus he wrote 

Like ancient oak o'erturned he lay. 

Or tower to tempests fall'n a prey, 

Or mountain sunk with all his pines 

Or flow'r the plow to dust consigns, 

And more things else — but all men know 'em 

If slightly versed in epic poem. 

He appealed to popular prejudice (as all controversial literature does), 
and was thereby sure of a sympathetic hearing before he started. The real 
keenness of observation, already practised in his prose essays and in his 
"Progress of Dulness," was well tried for this more ambitious work, yet 
his methods of workmanship were not too subtle for the public taste. 
In every canto there was more or less of rough horse-play. He resorted 
to word elisions and multiple rhymes, from the worst, like "ruins — new 
ones," "trouble ye — jubilee," to such happy ones as "shallow way — Gallow- 
way," and "league rose — negroes." He had no conscience to prevent his 
making M'Fingal the weakest of counsels for an evil cause, for in the 
process he gave more weight to the occasional passages in which 
Honorius rose to genuine eloquence. 

The work was immensely popular. The lack of copyright record 
makes the total number of editions speculative ; almost certainly twenty- 
five or more appeared before 1800. Trumbull was peculiarly well 
adapted for the writing of Revolutionary satire, and the Revolution, in 
all likelihood, was responsible for reclaiming to this sort of literature a 
pen which not long after was wholly dedicated to the law. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 611 



POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION 

In this group are included some forty representative selections which 
may fairly be regarded as a kind of verse obligato to the more substantial 
chorus of revolutionary literature. They extend from the first four (1755- 
1759). which supply evidence of a unified English population victorious 
over French and Indian foes, through the decade of discomfort and doubt 
(1766-1776), and the years of decision and conflict. (1776-1781). They are, 
for the most part, of unknown authorship, or the w^ork of men like John 
Dickinson (1752-1808), Jonathan Mitchell Sewall (1748-1808), Joseph 
Stansbury (1750-18093, and Jonathan Odell (1737-1818), whose verse 
writing was almost wholly inspired by the war and whose work would 
not otherwise have been included in this volume. Taken in conjunction 
with the revolutionary poems of Francis Hopkinson (1737-1791), John 
Trumbull (1750-1831), and Philip Freneau (1752-1832) — see pages 35-42, 
43-57, and 89-117 — they have a just bvit modest claim to the kind of atten- 
tion to which war literature is always entitled — the attention due to 
sugar-coated history. About one-third of the entire list, chiefly the work 
of Stansbury and Odell, indicates the typical development of increasingly 
clear and aggressive Tory conviction. 

/. Texts. 

Selections from Early American Writers, ed. W. B. Cairns ; Cyclo- 
pedia of American Literature, ed. E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck, ist vol.; 
American War Ballads and Lyrics, ed. G. C. Eggleston; Poets and 
Poetry of America, ed. R. W. Griswold; Songs and Ballads of the 
American Revolution, ed. Frank Moore; Loyalist Poetry of the Revo- 
lution, and Loyal Verses of Joseph Stansbury and Doctor Jonathan 
Odell, ed. Winthrop Sargent; Library of American Literature, ed. 
E. C. Stedman and E. M. Hutchinson, 3d vol.; Poems of American 
History, ed. B. F, Stevenson. 

II. Criticism. 

The Spirit of the American Revolution as Revealed in the Poetry 
of the Period, S. W. Patterson; American Verse, 1605-1807, W. B. 
Otis; Literary History of the American Revolution, M. C. Tyler, 
2 vols. 

In the first four, the unqualified colonial loyalty 'is evident at a glance. 
Braddock and Wolfe were heroes and martyrs; the subjects of Britain 
were fighting the wars of the Lord. With the fifth, however, appears 
the first sign of unrest. "Sure never was Picture drawn more to the 
Life" appeared the year after the Stamp Act, a year in which the 
words "freedom," "liberty," and "tyranny" were beginning to loom large. 
It was characteristic that this song and the three of 1768 should all be 
set to a melody then popular in old England, and it was significant that 
in 1768 the second of these songs was an abusive Tory parody of the 
first, following it within a few weeks, and rejoining to its heroic vocabu- 
lary with "villains," "rascals," "Banditti," "brats," "hunters," and allusions 



612 AMERICAN POETRY 

to the Devil and to Tyburn gallows. Still, by both factions, the extreme 
that v/as suggested was political insurrection which in the same breath 
protested against abuse and asserted its own loyalty to just British rule. 
As the break came nearer, the Tory attitude of Stansbury, and even of 
Odell, was notably conciliatory, and even the rebel song of May 31, 1775, 
which in the first stanza sounded the call to arms, petered out in a con' 
vivial anti-climax. 

In 1776 comes the inevitable word "independence," and a farewell to 
all attempts to spare the King at the expense of Lord North. The 
Colonials became truculent, though the Loyalists continued to deprecate 
and deplore until the formation of an alliance with the French, and the 
revulsion of feeling caused by their own personal hardships transformed 
their sorrow into anger. Now Odell blazed out, his "Congratulation" of 
November, 1779, and "The American Times," of 1780, rivalling Freneau's 
"British Prison Ship" and "The Political Balance" in vitriolic bitterness. 
In the closing years of the War, the Colonial verse relapsed into com- 
placency and Odell into sullen silence, while Stansbury pathetically tried 
to be happy as long as he might and prepared to play the role of graceful 
loser. 

The ways in which the verses were put into circulation are various 
and interesting. As always with "occasional" poetry, the regular journals 
and periodicals were the most effective instruments of distribution.. These 
included, among others. The Virginia Gazette, The Pennsylvania Gazette, 
The Pennsylvania Packet, and The Pennsylvania Journal, The Boston 
Gazette, The Freeman's Journal, or New Hampshire Gazette, and, for the 
Tories, Towne's Evening Post and Rivington's Royal Gazette. The diffi- 
culties, after 1776, of getting loyalist material printed and distributed 
naturally made Rivington, who was safe behind the British lines, the chief 
agent. Many of these songs were originally delivered at social gatherings, 
winter dinners, and summer outings, or as prologues or epilogues to plays, 
or were circulated by means of handbill "broadsides." One was included 
in a cantata, one was put out as a pasquinade — simply written out and con- 
spicuously posted — and one, the most famous of all, was almost a folk 
poem or ballad in origin. For "Yankee Doodle," although attributed 
originally to Edward Bangs, a Harvard sophomore, undoubtedly had the 
ballad experience of being modified and varied, as all ballads have been 
by this process. This experience was, of course, in a lesser degree, com- 
mon to all of the songs and jingles which were widely repeated or sung. 
"Yankee Doodle" was simply the pre-eminent example. Others from 
among this immediate group are "The Boston Tea Party," "The Fall of 
John Burgoyne," and "The Dance," all of which are in conventional ballad 
metre, with a half primitive ruggedness of form and content, and "Nathan 
Hale," more elaborate in form and more self-conscious in tone, a good 
eighteenth century treatment of ballad material which, if not actually 
"trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar," was at any rate quite 
appreciably dressed up. 

In any discussion of the literary qualities of these verses of conflict 
and loyalty, the frequently adopted device of writing new words for old 
melodies may be regarded as next of kin to the balladry of "Yankee Doodle." 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 613 

In the revolutionary days, as in every generation, there were a few popular 
favorites which it was impossible not to copy. The situation is well illus- 
trated to-day by the general practice in connection with college and fra- 
ternity songs. A good new melody is invariably pirated before its third 
season, and old ones sometimes have as many as five or six sets of more 
or less inferior verse composed to them. The popular songs of the 
late 1 8th century furnished a fair stimulus to at least respectable song 
writing. Perhaps the most famous then and now were "Hearts of Oak," 
"Lords of the Main," and the "Here's to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen," 
still familiar to the modern theatre-goer, as sung by Charles Surface in 
"The School for Scandal." These and their like were all well turned and 
graceful, with dashes of rather magniloquent heroism and turns of tender 
sentiment. They were not vulgar in tone or content, still less were they 
vulgar in the neat rotundity of their form. It was fortunate for the 
literary quality of revolutionary song that the standard types of the day 
were not doggerel nor modern concert hall drivel. 

The four songs of 1766 and 1768 already alluded to were all close 
parodies of "Hearts of Oak" or of each other, as was also Stansbury's 
"When Good Queen Elizabeth Governed the Realm." Stansbury's "Lords 
of the Main" was after an English prototype, and the "Volunteer Boys," 
attributed to Henry Archer, is very evidently after the metre of "Here's 
to the Maiden." Sometimes a good melody was used without attempt to 
parody the original words or sentiment. The tune "Derry Down," in one 
of the prevailing anapestic measures, for which were written the "Satire 
on the Liberty Pole" of 1770, and the satirical "Epilogue" of 1778, could 
carry several other of the selections by the mere addition of the burden 
"Derry down, down, hey, derry down" ; and the iambic "Maggie Lauder" 
could accompany not only "Cornwallis Burgoyned," but any other of the 
conventional ballad verse which was not otherwise engaged. Of the songs 
as a whole, from Wolfe's "How Stands the Glass Around" to those of 
Freneau and Hopkinson forty years later, it is fair to say that they were 
thoroughly English in form and sentiment. Manly strength, feminine 
grace, the cheering influence of the social glass, and a traditionally aristo- 
cratic point of view were implicit in them. By accident, they were dedi- 
cated to a struggle for and against a democratic principle, but these song 
writers, by common consent with the rest of the radical vintners of their 
day, poured their new political wines into old literary bottles. 

Equal in importance with ballad and song in Revolutionary verse is 
the satire. The ballad was composed to record heroic deeds and episodes, 
like the songs, to stimulate heroic moods. Both of them were designed 
for vocal interpretation and were picturesque and concrete appeals to the 
emotions. In contrast, satire based on analysis and criticism was a cal- 
culated approach to the intellect. Most of it is quite cold-blooded; its sole 
emotional challenge is to righteous wrath. "Facit indignatio versum." 

In its most guileless, yet sometimes most effective, form it may be simply 
amusing, derisive only by implication. In such guise it occurs in Stans- 
bury's "Pasquinade," a rare instance of Tory satire directed at one of its 
own leaders, and, again, in the Tory "Fable" attributed to David Matthews, 
the single example here of the fable in verse to which Pope's generation 



614 AMERICAN POETRY 

were peculiarly addicted. It cropped out here together with the companion 
type of primitive allegory, the essay fable which flourished in i8th century 
periodicals, from the Spectator to The Citizen of the World and beyond. 
In verse such as the present example it occurred somewhat infrequently 
in Colonial America, but in prose the fable was often used with effect 
by Franklin, Hopkinson, and others. 

There is abundant othdr satire in the verse of the Revolution, for it 
is a natural weapon in the times that try men's souls. The writing of 
explicitly satirical poems on an extended scale was chiefly done for the 
Colonials by John Trumbull and Philip Freneau (see pp. 43-57, 89-117) and 
for the Loyalists by Jonathan Odell. 

The most important of Odell's contributions were "The Congratulation" 
and "The American Times," of 1779 and 1780. At these stages in the 
war Odell had lost all hope for any but the most bitter solution, and, like 
Freneau, he had become filled with hatred as the result of his own in- 
defensible hardships. These hot protests were written in the iambic 
pentameter of "The Dunciad." The jauntier four-foot measure of 
"Hudibras" and "The Hind and the Panther" was 'left to those who felt 
less deeply. The mock congratulation of the first poem plays around the 
twelve times repeated burden : 

Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold: 
The grand cajolers are themselves cajoled, 

and the vocabulary of abuse is moderately sounded. In the second the 
depths are plumbed; "foul Sedition skulks" in the third line, the state is 
"one putrefying sore," and "all the lice of Egypt" follow Washington, who 
is "Patron of villainy, of villains chief." The recriminative language of 
war sounds strangely familiar when Odell, in the third part of "The Times," 
contends that the colonists were wanton trouble-makers, and that the war 
clouds would all have blown over if only the malcontents had not insisted 
upon fighting. And the mental processes behind war controversy are 
more frankly confessed than usual in the couplets: 

But arm they would, ridiculously brave; 
Good laughter, spare me: I would fain be grave: 
So arm they did — the knave led on the fool! 
Good anger, spare me: I would fain be cool. 

With these two diatribes the bitterest of Loyalist asperity seemed to 
exhaust itself, and from this time on, in a somewhat lighter vein, Trumbull, 
Freneau and their sympathizers laughed best and laughed last. 

PHILIP FRENEAU (1752-1832) 

Philip Freneau was born in New York City in 1752. He entered the 
sophomore class at Princeton, graduating in 1771. He taught for a while 
after college, but in 1775 gained sudden reputation as a political satirist. 
From late 1775 to 1778 he lived in Santa Cruz and Bermuda. In 1779 he 
made the voyage to the Azores and back. In 1780, when starting on another 
voyage, his vessel was captured, and he was held in British prison ships 



4 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 615 

from May 25 to July 12. 1781-1784 he was editor of The Freeman's 
Journal, contributing a great deal of prose and verse, all unsigned. 1784- 
1790 he was chiefly on the sea in Atlantic coast trade. Next for seven 
years he was a journalist with four successive papers — 'The Charleston 
Daily Advertiser, The National Gazette (Philadelphia), The Jersey Chron- 
icle, The Time Piece and Literary Companion (New York). 1798-1803 
he was in unsuccessful farming, and then 1803-1807 in his last period of 
sea voyaging. He lived until 1832. 

Most of his poems appeared through the journals of his day, and many 
also under independent imprints. They were assembled in book form dur- 
ing his lifetime in editions of 1786, 1788, 1795, 1809, ^.nd 181 5. 

/. Texts. 

The definitive edition of Freneau's poems, from which the selec- 
tions in- this volume are drawn, is Poems of Philip Freneau, edited, 
with an introduction, for the Princeton Historical Association by Fred 
Lewis Pattee, Princeton, 1902, 3 vols., 8vo. The other chief sources 
of information are : 

A Bibliography, by Victor Hugo Paltsits. New York, 1903. 

//. Biography. 

Philip Freneau, a History of his Life and Times, by Mary S. Austin, 
New York, 1901. 

The Political Activities of Philip Freneau, by Samuel E. Forman. 
Series XX, Nos. 9-10, Johns Hopkins University Studies. Baltimore, 
1902. 

Philip Freneau, the Huguenot Patriot-Poet, etc., by E. F. DeLancey. 
Proceedings of the Huguenot Soc. of Amer., Vol. IE No. 2, 1891. 

Poems of Philip Freneau relating to the American Revolution, 
with Introductory Memoir and Notes, by E. A. Duyckinck, 1865. 

The mistaken liking for neat formulae to which many historians and 
critics of literature are addicted, has given currency to two phrases 
descriptive of Freneau which are suggestive, even though misleading. 
These are "Poet of the American Revolution," and "Father of American 
Poetry." Taken together, they carry the quite truthful implication that 
Freneau was a naturally endowed poet, who gave his strength to moulding 
public opinion during a great national crisis. H one yearns for a formula 
he may fairly adopt the equation that Freneau was to the Revolution 
what Whittier was to the Civil War. The two kinds of writing implied 
in these phrases, while interwoven into a long career, may be considered 
separately. 

As "Poet of the Revolution," Freneau came into sudden prominence in 
1775 with the publication of "The Political Litany" in June, "American 
Liberty" in July, "General Gage's Soliloquy" in August, "The Midnight 
Consultations" in September, and "To the Americans" and "General Gage's 
Confession" in October. In these four months the youth of twenty-three 
did nearly half of his most effective work as a writer of martial satires. 



616 AMERICAN POETRY 

All but one o£ them were in the heroic couplet, conventionally done after 
the manner of Pope, with all the usual formalities and locutions, but with 
infectious fire and sincerity. The other chief productions were "America 
Independent" in 1778, "George the Third's Soliloquy" in 1779, "The British 
Prison Ship" in 1781, and "A Prophecy" and "The Political Balance" 
in 1782. 

Taken as a group, these productions lend themselves to comparison and 
contrast with those of Freneau's leading opponent, Jonathan Odell (see 
pp. 69, 71, 77-83). At the start, Freneau's verses were more aggressive than 
those of the conciliatory royalist. By 1781 they were as acrid as Odell's, 
for though both had been subjected to hardship, Freneau had suffered the 
greater indignities in his prison ship experiences. In the last years of 
the war Odell's bitterness was confirmed, but Freneau adopted a tone of 
caustic levity which became natural with the confidence of success. With 
the end of the war, Odell's verse-writing waned. So did that of almost 
all the "poets of the Revolution"; but not with Freneau, for he was 
interested in the course of human 'events of which the war was merely one 
important chapter, and he continued to write on men and affairs for 
another thirty years. 

As a journalist, he paid his respects to the Tories again and again. He 
never forgave Rivington, their publisher, for the part he had played. He 
analyzed public opinion, and what it demanded of the public press, and he 
anticipated Irving's "Salmagundi" gibes at the "logocracy" by many years. 
He sang once more the praises of liberty in the days of the French 
Revolution, and he protested at British domination of the seas as events 
were leading up to the War of 181 2. Finally, he came to the defence of 
the American soldier, "lost in the abyss of want," and of the negro slave, 
"scourged by ruffian hands." To dub Freneau "Poet of the Revolution," 
therefore, limits by implication even the scope of his verses on men and 
events, and it wholly neglects his more important work. It would be 
equally unfair to estimate Whittier solely as "Poet of Anti-Slavery." 

To use the other favorite epithet for Freneau, "Father of American 
Poetry," is to be equally unfair in claiming too much for him. He had 
too many important predecessors and contemporaries in America. More- 
over, the fondest employers of the phrase have never stopped to trace his 
poetical posterity in America. They are usually content to rest their 
claims on one line in Campbell and another in Scott — a small and alien 
family. Yet the expression has its just significance in suggesting that 
Freneau was a poet of natural talents and original inclinations. 

Freneau's poetical career was a long one, lasting from the delivery of 
his commencement poem on "The Rising Glory of America," in 1771, to 
the publication of the fifth collected edition of his poems, forty-four years 
later, in 181 5; and it showed, as long careers are likely to, several clearly 
marked stages in his development. At the outset, he was bookish and 
consciously "literary" in his inclinations. He speculated on the artistic 
future, of his country ; aspired, like every other young verse-writer for the 
next fifty years, to be the great American poet, and showed an epic 
inclination even before Dwight began "The . Conquest of Canaan," or 
Barlow "The Vision of Columbus." Freneau's eighteen "Pictures of 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 617 

Columbus" are full of youthful poetic fire. His "Power of Fancy" is 
pleasantly Miltonic, and his lines "On Retirement" at once sincere and 
unconsciously imitative. There is enough in his work before 1775 to 
prove that his powers were far from being evoked by the War — that they 
were, on the contrary, distracted and diverted by it. Even during the 
struggle they were not wholly dedicated to it. The sailor, the south seas, 
and the sentimentalism of the age all came in for a little share of his atten- 
tion, as recorded in poems like "Lines to a Coasting Captain," "The 
Beauties of Santa Cruz," and "On Amanda's Singing Bird." These all 
were the work of an impressionable young poet, who wrote as all young 
poets do — as his most talented contemporaries, Hopkinson and Trumbull 
did — in clear imitation of the best recent models, themselves of course 
English, for America afforded no models. 

For a man of Freneau's temper, however, the fact of political eman- 
cipation begat a desire for corresponding intellectual freedom. The fact 
is perceptible in his work as a whole, but it is also explicitly recorded in 
his verses of 1786 on "Literary Importation." A nation that could boast 
a Washington, a Franklin, and a Rittenhouse, should not tolerate the 
importation of an English bishop for an American episcopacy, or of English 
bookworms for American colleges. It was not simply that Freneau wanted 
American-born men in positions of honor, but rather that he wanted Ameri- 
can ideas propounded in American churches and classrooms. "If they 
give us their bishops, they'll give us their law." 

Thus, and not by accident, in "The Wild Honeysuckle" and "To a 
Caty-did" he wrote simple verse on American themes quite as worth cele- 
brating as the wild eglantine or the skylark, and in "The Indian Burying 
Ground" he found poetic stuff equal to any that Scott and Campbell 
were to find in the romantic past of Britain. At the present day there 
seems nothing remarkable in this, and there is assuredly nothing praise- 
worthy. Yet it is a fact of literary history that poetical conventions dom- 
inate all but the rarely independent, in the adoption of both subject matter 
and verse forms. Freneau, though widely read, was more independent ' 
in his maturer writing than many of the 19th century American poets, 
whose work was more literary than spontaneous. 

For the last thirty years of his authorship Freneau was, therefore, if 
not all things to all men, at least two sorts of things to two sorts of men. 
He was enormously interested in the affairs of state and in the problems 
connected with them. He was, consequently, from time to time, writing 
poems on events and issues; and so turning his gifts as a versifier to 
journalistic account. Yet he was by no means overwhelmingly interested 
in contemporary problems, for all the while, too, his mind was looking 
far to the future, was occupied with the legends of the past, and was 
playing with themes of graceful and tender sentiment. So, in his various 
moods, he could write with almost equal effectiveness "The Political 
Balance," and "The Progress of Balloons," and "The Indian Burying 
Ground," and "On a Honey Bee." 

There were both losses and gains in Freneau's long and productive 
career. In the later years his mastery of verse was firmer, his diction 
was more clear cut, his rhymes were more secure, and his rhythmic lapses 



618 AMERICAN POETRY 

less frequent. Such a circumlocution as the following could have been 
written only in his youth: 

That juice destructive to the pangs of care 
Which Rome of old, nor Athens could prepare, 
Which gains the day for many a modern chief 
When cool reflection yields a faint relief, 
That charm whose virtue warms the world beside, 
Was by these tyrants to our use denied. 

The short and ugly word in this case was — grog. Yet in genuine poetic 
power Freneau did not display a growth corresponding to his improvement 
in technique. Two or three of his most famous shorter poems were com- 
posed after he was forty years of age, but the great promise of his youth 
was by no means fulfilled. There was a certain buoyant readiness of 
fancy in his early work, and at times there were fine moments of poetic 
fervor which gave hope of a genius that never came to full development. 

I see, I see 
A thousand kingdoms rais'd, cities, and men 
Num'rous as sand upon the ocean shore; 
Th' Ohio then shall glide by many a town 
Of note; and where the Mississippi stream 
By forests shaded now runs weeping on. 
Nations shall grow and States not less in fame 
Than Greece and Rome of old; we too shall boast 
Our Alexanders, Pompeys, heroes, kings 
That in the womb of time yet dormant lye 
Waiting the joyful hour of life and light. 

The college boy who wrote these lines fell upon evil days. The en- 
mities he made in the period of controversy wreaked themselves on him 
in hostile and abusive criticism, and the dull drudgery of journalism blunted 
him. It is usually idle business to speculate on what a poet* might have 
done under different and more auspicious circumstances, but it is almost 
impossible not to believe that the drafting of Freneau into popular service 
prevented him from larger achievement; that the" measure" in which he 
was Poet of the Revolution decreased his claim to the title of Father 
of American Poetry. 

TIMOTHY DWIGHT (1752-1817) 

Dwight, a grandson of Jonathan Edwards, was born in Northampton, 
Mass., May 14, 1752. After showing a childish precocity, not uncommon 
in his day, and almost equal to that of John Trumbull, he was given his 
bachelor's degree at Yale in 1769. During the next eight years of teach- 
ing and study, two in a New Haven grammar school, and six in Yale 
College, he gave himself so rigorously to the asceticism of the old-time 
scholar, that he permanently injured his health and his eyesight. In 1777- 
1778 he was chaplain in the Continental army. From 1778 to 1783 he lived 
in Northampton, farming and preaching, as well as serving two terms in 
the state legislature. It was during his service as Congregational pastor 
at Greenfield, Conn., that he published his three long poems mentioned 
below. From 1795 to his death in 1817 he was president of Yale College. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 619 

He wrote voluminously on theological subjects, but his only other work 
of literary interest was his "Travels in New England and New York," 4 
vols., posthumously published in 1823. 

I. Texts. 

There are no recent editions of Dwight. The originals are : 

The Conquest of Canaan; A Poem in Eleven Books. Hartford, 
1784. 

The Triumph of Infidelity : A Poem. Printed in the World, 1788. 
(No name given of place, author or publisher.) - 

Greenfield Hill; A Poem, in Seven Parts. New York, 1794. 

Travels in New England and New York. 4 vols. Eondon, 1823. . 

//. Biography. 

Memoir prefixed to Dwight's "Theology," in 4 vols., by W. T. and 
S. E. Dwight. 

The Life of Timothy Dwight, in Vol. XIV of Sparks's "Library 
of American' Biography," by W. B. Sprague. 

A Sketch in Vol. II of Sprague's "Annals of the American Pulpit." 

///. Criticism. 

Three Men of Letters, by M. C. Tyler, pp. 72-127. 
Introduction to the Poems of Philip Freneau, edited for the Prince- 
ton Historical Association, F. L. Pattee, Vol. I, pp. c, ci. 

Timothy Dwight wrote verse for about twenty years, although the 
dates of his chief publications fall close together between 1785 and 1794. 
He was an orthodox grandson of the last great champion of Calvinism, 
and so was naturally given to deep enthusiasms and lofty ambitions. When 
the war came on, he raised his voice in the chorus of patriotic song. Most 
of what he sung has been lost, but his one paean, "Columbia," is among 
the best of American national lyrics. It was addressed to a nation in 
arms, who needed the comfort of an heroic appeal to the emotions. He 
left jocosity to Trumbull and Hopkinson, and diatribe to Freneau, while 
he sang with the prophetic zeal of the Puritan about the glories that 
were to be: 

'TTius, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, 
From war's dread confusion I pensively strayed — 
The gloom from the face of fair heav'n retired ;_ 
The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired; 
Perfumes as of Eden, flowed sweetly along, 
And a voice, as of angels, encharitingly sung, 
"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise. 
The queen of the world, and the child of the skies!" 

But "Columbia" was by no means Dwight's first fervid national utter- 
ance. Though he was doomed to wait eleven years for publication, this 
"young Connecticut parson, thrilled through and through," had already 
poured "his enthusiasm into an epic of the wars of Joshua, done in the 
heroics of Pope." Although the English poet, Cowper, wrote a long and 
kindly review on the eleven books of "The Conquest of Canaan," Pro- 



620 AMERICAN POETRY 

fessor Pattee is only a shade too severe on the output of Revolutionary 
epics :^ "There was no burst of song in America; instead, there followed 
one of the most pathetic spectacles in all literary history — a people with 
a vision that transported them into the clouds, yet powerless through en- 
vironment and early education to transmute that vision into song. . . . 
We see them, however, struggling^ heroically with the burden. From 1774, 
when Dwight completed his 'Conquest of Canaan,' 'the first piece of this 
kind ever attempted in this country,' as he observed in his preface, until 
i8o[7], which ends the period with Barlow's 'Columbiad' — the 'Polyolbion' 
of American poetry — the years are strewn thick with the wrecks of epics. 
. . . Charles Brockden Brown, when only sixteen, had started no less 
than three of these Homeric efforts; one on the discovery of America, 
and one each on the conquests of Mexico and Peru. It was our heroic 
era, but it yielded almost hothing of value. Mere exaltation availeth little 
unless it be grounded either upon genius or long-continued culture." 
"The Conquest of Canaan" was better, however, than "The Triumph of 
Infidelity," of which little good can be said. This was a prolonged attempt 
at scathing satire on the part of a man who had no native sense of 
humor. It is impossible that it can have amused anyone, though it doubt- 
less gave grim satisfaction to other good folk who were no less devoted 
than he to old-fashioned orthodoxy. 

Far the best of Dwight's longer poems was "Greenfield Hill," published 
the year before he accepted the presidency of Yale. This poem had many 
such distinguished forerunners as Ben Jonson's "Penshurst," John Den- 
ham's "Cooper's Hill," and Pope's "Windsor Forest," the plan being 
simply to look out from some hilltop a'nd derive a series of narrative and 
descriptive verse from what the views suggested. If the plan was an 
established one, Dwight's original scheme for working it out was even 
more frankly unoriginal, for he had at first, as the preface states, 
"designed to imitate, in the several parts, the manner of as many British 
poets, but finding himself too much occupied, when he projected the pub- 
lication, to pursue that design, he relinquished it." This failure was alto- 
gether fortunate, for in the present form of the poem, Dwight's little 
flame shines stoutly from beneath the overshadowing bushels of Spenser, 
Thomson, Gay, Goldsmith, and others less easily recognizable. The whole 
is divided into seven parts, as follows: I, The Prospect; II, The Flourish- 
ing Village, "Fair Verna ! loveliest village of the west"; III, The Burning 
of Fairfield, an attempt to consign to "the most finished detestation" the 
memory of Governor Tryon, who, in 1779, bombarded the village from 
Long Island Sound; IV, The Destruction of the Pequods, an heroic chapter 
in Connecticut history, narrated in Spenserian stanzas ; V, The Clergyman's 
Advice to the Villagers, Mr. Dwight's pulpit ethics in verse; VI, The 
Farmer's Advice to the Villagers, delivered "on a pleasant monday," an 
admirable example, taken with Part V, of how the Lord's anointed could 
combine worldliness and other-worldliness, and VII, The Vision, or Pros- 
pect of the Future Happiness of America. Thus, in scale, the poem had 
a sort of pocket-epic magnitude with a concluding burst of loyalty, but 

* F, L. Pattee, Introduction to "The Poems of Philip Freneau," Vol. I, pp. c and ci. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 621 

it was genuinely local and concrete in character, and in point of view, 
as well as content, was essentially American. Even in the last part, 
where the temptation was greatest to identify the future of America with 
a vaguely glorious millennium, Dwight kept his head as he presented in 
rhythmic and sometimes poetical numbers the fair conclusions to be drawn 
from an honest survey of location, climate, property, government, and 
the advancement of the arts and sciences. 

"Greenfield Hill" is, therefore an interesting and readable document in 
literary history. It presents the workings of a sturdy, upright New 
England mind and conscience, its vigorous and narrow prejudices, its 
honest zeal for the country's good. It is very evidently an old document 
in some of its national concepts. It showed no prophetic sense of what 
the new industrialism and miscellaneous immigration were to bring about. 
In the remotest confines of Dwight's vista there was neither slum nor 
factory. But, if in this social blindness he seems remotely antiquated, he 
shared one other defect of vision with the America of only day before 
yesterday, for he was one of the earliest to rely on America's magnificent 
isolation : 

See this glad world remote from every foe. 
From Europe's mischief and from Europe's woel 
Th' Atlantic's guardian tide repelling far 
The jealous terror and the veangeful war!* 

Here, without w^^'s, the fields of safety spread, 
And, free as winds, ascends the peaceful shade.' 

As poetry, it amounts to little more than "The Conquest of Canaan," 
or "The Triumph of Infidelity," but as a record of New England life and 
thought, it is immensely worth while, and deserves to be read side by side 
with an equally valuable treasure-house of fact and conviction, the four 
volumes of "Travels in New England and New York." To use a dis- 
tinction of modern English politics, he was a conservative liberal, a 
compound of Yankee shrewdness and Puritan zeal. In the passage from 
the 1 8th century to the 19th he was a representative character who car- 
ried over the Calvinistic rectitude of Jonathan Edwards with the practical 
sagacity of Benjamin Franklin. He achieved no works or art, but he 
contributed to the collateral literature of American history, and stands 
out boldly in the history of American literature. 



JOEL BARLOW (1754-1813) 

Barlow was born in Redding, Conn., in 1754. He was graduated from 
Yale, after a year at Dartmouth, in 1778, reading a. Commencement poem 
on "The Prospect of Peace." From 1780 to 1783 he was chaplain in the 
Continental army. During this period, he brought to completion his "Vision 
of Columbus," which, after many delays, was published by subscription 
in 1787, and, twenty years later, appeared, revised and expanded, as "The 
Columbiad." Minor activities as a poet resulted in his official revision 

» "Greenfield Hill," Part VII, lines 87-90. 'Ibid., lines 321, 322, 



622 AMERICAN POETRY 

of the Book of Psalmody, in 1785; his participation, with Hopkins, 
Trumbull, and Humphreys, in "The Anarchiad," in 1786-1787; his "Hasty 
Pudding," in 1793, and his "Conspiracy of Kings," in 1796. 

These latter two were produced during his residence abroad, 1788-1805, 
when he became known, and was by many discredited, as a radical re- 
publican. His "Advice to the Privileged Orders in the Several States of 
Europe, Resulting from the Necessity and Propriety of a General Revolu- 
tion in the Principle of Government" (1792 and 1795), was fiercely con- 
demned by all conservatives. In his latter years, however, he was in 
personal favor with Pres^idents Jefferson and Madison, who recognized him 
as an honest liberal. He lived until 1813. 

/. Texts. 

His epic is accessible only in early editions. 

The Vision of Columbus. A Poem, in Nine Books. 1787. (Four 
more editions by 1794.) 

The Columbiad. A Poem in Ten Books. Philadelphia, 1807. (A 
sumptuous quarto of 454 pages, with twelve full-page steel engravings.) 

Hasty Pudding ; a Poem in Three Cantos with a Memoir on Maize, 
by D. J. Browne. New York, 1847. 

//. Biography. 

Life and Letters of Joel Barlow, by C. B. Todd. New York, 1886. 

///. Criticism. 

Three Men of Letters, by M. C. Tyler, pp. 131-180. 

Barlow was the most ambitious, laborious, and persistent of the i8th 
century American aspirants to epic fame. His final product, "The Colum- 
biad," appeared in 1807, nearly thirty years after the idea first occurred 
to him. In 1787 he published "a sketch of the present poem," under the 
title of "The Vision of Columbus," a sketch which ran to the modest 
proportions of nine books and nearly 5,000 lines. In its final shape, it 
was not only poetically enlarged, but was accordingly magnified in an 
elaborately embellished quarto, in the fashion of the Baskerville reprints 
of the classics, then in polite English vogue. 

The poem, whose earlier name is the more exact, is really the old-age 
vision of Columbus as seen from a mountain-top, to which he is led by 
the Titan Hesper, guardian genius of the western world. To him is 
exhibited the conquest of South America, the settling of the colonies in 
North America, the French and Indian Wars in brief, and the War of the 
Revolution in prolonged detail. Then follow a hymn to peace, an arraign- 
mentof slavery in the land of liberty, and a survey of the progress of the 
arts in America. This would seem to have been enough of a vision for 
the downcast discoverer; but the reader is further enlightened by two 
more books, which contain what proves to be the Vision of Barlow as 
shared by Columbus. The latter is somewhat perplexed at the slow 
progress of science and the apparent persistency of international warfare, 
until Hesper, with great erudition and fine optimism, expounds the law 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 623 

of progression in the physical, moral, and intellectual world, adorning 
his discourse with extended allusions, as the "Argument" to Book IX an- 
nounces, to "the ancient and modern state of the arts and of society. 
Crusades, Commerce, Hanseatic League, Copernicus, Kepler, Newton, 
Galileo, Herschel, Descartes, Bacon, Printing Press, Magnetic Needle, 
Geographical Discoveries, Federal System in America." And he concludes 
that this system, extended to the whole world, will lead to the federation 
of nations, the Parliament of the World. 

"The Columbiad" is accompanied by a twelve-page preface, which is 
a significant piece of early American criticism. With reference to the 
form of the work, Barlow makes no mention of his adopting the heroic 
couplet, but takes some pride in his rigid observance of the classical unities 
of time, place, and action, and hopes for a favorable verdict upon "the 
disposition of the parts, the invention and application of incidents, the 
propriety of the illustrations, the liveliness and the chastity of the images, 
the suitable intervention of machinery," and the "language whose energy, 
harmony, and elegance shall constitute a style everywhere suited to the 
matter they have to treat." As to the contents, he is chiefly interested 
in the introduction of new poetic material through the invention of new 
machinery of warfare, and he exclaims at the hitherto neglected possi- 
bilities of naval combats, quite ignoring Freneau's fine account in the first 
canto of "The British Prison Ship." 

His chief object, he says, however, is of a moral and political nature; 
artistry is subordinate; and his epic, in its moral import, belongs to his 
enlightened age and embodies its newer ideals of peace. Homer taught 
"that conquest, violence, and war were the best employment of nations" ; 
"Virgil wrote and felt like a subject, not like a citizen." Barlow's avowed 
and contrasted object was "to inculcate the love of rational liberty, and 
to discountenance the deleterious passion for violence and war." The 
temptation is obvious to hold Barlow up to scorn in the light of the com- 
parison which he thus invites, but the attentive reader of his preface will 
come upon one passage which is far more profound than amusing: "I 
cannot expect that every reader, nor even every republican reader, will 
join me in opinion with respect to the future progress of society and the 
civilization of states; but there are two sentiments in which I think all 
men will agree : that the event is desirable, and that to believe it practical 
is one step toward rendering it so." 

The poem, of course, was not a popular success; such poems never 
are. Nor has it become a classic, for it had neither the primitive vigor 
of a folk epic nor the lofty perfection of a modern literary masterpiece. 
Its claims to the attention of the student are based chiefly on two facts: 
that it possessed the originalities in subject matter and viewpoint of which 
its author made note in the preface, and that it was the best of the 
colonial epic attempts, more sustained than Freneau's "Pictures of Colum- 
bus," more elevated than anything of Trumbull's, more reasonable and 
readable than Dwight's "Conquest of Canaan," and more universal than 
his "Greenfield Hill." In "Greenfield Hill," Dwight wrote a more success- 
ful poem, but in "The Columbiad" Barlow came nearer to achieving really 
epic breadth. 



624 AMERICAN POETRY 

But his reach did not always exceed his grasp. 

One wild flower he's plucked that is wet with the dew 
Of this fresh Western world, 

and that was his mock-heroic pastoral, "Hasty Pudding." Homesick in 
Savoy one December day in 1792 (he had been, writing to his wife in 
London that the very word America was sweetness to his soul), he and 
his fellow Commissioners of the National Convention were served mush 
and milk — Hasty Pudding. He had ordered it in vain in Paris and 
London, 

But here, though distant from our native shore. 
With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more. 

All during the meal he dwelt on the merits of the dish to his colleagues, 
and doubtless gave them disconnectedly what appears in this impromptu : 
the various names for it, its superiority to other foods, and then, after a 
long breath, instructions about the cultivation, of the* grain, its harvesting, 
its husking, its preparation and serving, the rival claims of molasses and 
sugar, and even the choice in spoons. The whole episode was simple 
and genuine, like the dish and his verses on it. He was really enthusiastic, 
but he anticipated the polite derision of his colleagues by adroitly lapsing 
into mock-heroics. 'Mid eighteen 'years of roaming, sometimes among 
pleasures and palaces, and sometimes in 'Alpine Snows" and "Turkey's 
morbid air," he sang with hearty zest this song of home, sweet home. 

This, naturally enough, was popular, and does deserve a reading to-day 
on directly literary grounds — not because it was well meant, though in- 
effectual, but because it was a simple, good-natured, clever bit of fun- 
making by a man who was himself simple, good-natured, and cleve'r enough 
to write a mock-pastoral, 'even though he was a good deal lower than the 
angels, to whom alone the writing of epics should be delegated. 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE (1795-1820) 

Drake was born, in New York City in 1795. After a brief business 
life he studied privately and became a physician. As a boy he was a 
wide reader, and he early began writing verse under various assumed 
signatures. "The Culprit Fay" was written in 1816, before he was of age, 
though not published until "The ' Croaker" papers were written with 
Halleck in the spring'of 1819. He died of consumption in September, 1820, 

/. Texts. 

The Culprit Fay and Other Poems. New York, 1835. 
The Culprit Fay (separate edition). New York, 1859. 
The American Flag (separate edition). New York, 1861. 
No recent edition of Drake has appeared, but these two title poems 
have been reprinted in many collections. 

//. Criticism. 

Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. H, p. 326. (E. A. Poe.) 
Harper's Magazine, Vol. XLIX, p. 65. (J. G.. Wilson.) 



I 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 625 

Joseph Rodman Drake is usually disposed of as a handsome and senti- 
mental young New Yorker, who wrote one striking poem of fancy, "The 
Culprit Fay," and one fine song of loyalty, "The American Flag," who 
collaborated with Fitz-Greene Halleck on "The Croaker" papers, and died 
an early and lamented death in his twenty-sixth year. If its implications 
are properly followed through, this is not an unfair summary. 

"The Culprit Fay," according to a letter by Halleck, was the product 
of three days' writing in the summer of 1816. It has been frequently 
said that the poem was written as a conscious attempt to turn American 
scenery to literary account, Cooper maintaining that it could not be done, 
just as it is said of a slightly later date that Cooper wrote "The Pilot" 
to demonstrate how much better a sea story he could produce than had 
the anonymous author of "The Pirate." It makes little difference whether 
or not the anecdote was true ; the basic self-consciousness of the American 
poet in 1820 was prevailing, and Drake gives open evidence of it in "To a 
Friend," "Niagara," and "Bronx." But, whether or not it was true, the 
fact is remarkable that nothing in the poem gives any active suggestion 
that Drake had any real background in mind. It reads like the product of 
pure and unbridled fancy, and for the modern reader who is sensitive to 
scrupulousness of diction, care in the use of verb-tenses, and a reasonable 
consistency and harmony in the imagery, "The Culprit Fay" reads like what 
it actually is — the hurried product of a boyish mind.^ 

Yet, in its day, it was astonishingly popular. Said Halleck: "It is 
certainly the best thing of the kind in the English language, and is more 
strikingly original than I had supposed it possible for a modern poem 
to be." 2 Lots of other people thought the same ; but in this comment, 
and in its pertinence to the young poet, lies what seems to have been the 
essential difference between Halleck and Drake. Halleck could hardly 
conceive of originality in a 19th century American poem. For him, art 
had arrived at final standards. He believed in Pope and Christopher Wren 
and Handel and Gainsborough. There was nothing left to do but ring 
the changes on the chimes in their — Protestant Episcopal — temple of art. 
But Drake tried new things and rebelled at old. And, while he achieved 
little in his short lifetime, his efforts in poetry, all the best of them, were 
strainings at the leash of 18th century convention. 

In his stanzas, "To a Friend," addressed to Halleck, Drake wrote his 
best commentary on "The Culprit Fay's" shortcomings and those ambitions 
of his own with which Halleck never became fully infected. Militant 
poetry, he said, was not the only kind needed; America should come to 
herself. Fairies, imps, kelpies, vampires, spectres, demons, were not native 
to our soil. 

Fair reason checks these monsters at their birth. 

But there was left the whole realm of primitive American life and 
majestic American scenery. Drake was still all for splendidly remote 
romance. He saw no gleam of poetry in democracy or the crowded town; 

* For the most careful criticism of the poem yet written see Poe's comments in the 
Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II, p. 326. 
'"Life and Letters," ed. J. G. Wilson, p. 183. 



626 AMERICAN POETRY 

yet what he pleaded for was better than Georgian sonnets to milady's 
eyebrow : 

Go! kneel a worshipper at nature's shrine! 

For you her fields are green, and fair her skies! 

For you her rivers flow, her hills arise! 

And will you scorn them all, to pour forth tame 

And heartless lays of feigned or fancied sighs? 

Still will you cloud the muse? nor blush with shame 

To cast away renown, and hide your head from fame? 

The most spirited and lasting thing Drake wrote appeared as the 
twenty-seventh "Croaker," the only one of the series preserved in the 
1835 edition of his poems. "The American Flag" belongs in the choicest 
group of national lyrics, with Dwight's "Columbia," Joseph Hopkinson's 
"Columbia the Gem of the Ocean," and Key's "Star-Spangled Banner." 
As poetry, it surpasses them all, rising to perilous heights but never quite 
falling into bathos. It is the more remarkable because it was not inspired 
by any momentary fear of, or lust for, battle. This, with his "Niagara," 
shows the promise and the ambition that were in him, and they lead the 
modern critic to feel that although "The Culprit Fay" has been a very much 
overrated poem, the early death of Joseph Rodman Drake is still to be 
lamented. 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867). 

Halleck was born in Guilford, Conn., in 1790. As a boy, he read 
eagerly from the popular English poets, and wrote imitative verse. After a 
common school education, he went into business in Guilford, 1805-1811. For 
nearly forty years following, he held subordinate confidential clerkships in 
New York City, with Jacob Barker, 1811-1829, and in the office of John Jacob 
Astor, 1832-1849. From then till his death in 1867 he lived in bachelor 
retirement at Guilford, his own savings being supplemented by a small 
annuity from J. J. Astor and a further gift from W. B. Astor. His 
first success came with the "Croaker" papers, written anonymously by 
himself and Joseph Rodman Drake, and printed March-July, 181 9 — mainly 
in the New York Evening Post. In December, 1819, appeared the satirical 
poem, "Fanny," and from this time on to the end of his career he enjoyed 
the intense admiration of his fellow townsmen, the. respect of literary 
America, and the genial attentions of the kindlier spirits in London. 

/. Texts. 

The Poetical Writings of Fitz Greene Halleck. With extracts from 
those of Joseph Rodman Drake. Edited by J. G. Wilson. New York, 
1869. (This includes "The Croakers.") 

Other important editions are: Fanny. New York, 1819. Alnwick 
Castle, with Other Poems. New York, 1827. Fanny and Other Poems. 
New York, 1839. Poems by Fitz-Greene Halleck. New York, 1839. 
Poetical Works, now first collected. New York, 1847. Complete 
Edition of Poems of Fitz-Greene Halleck. New York, 1858. The 
Croakers. First complete edition. Printed for the Bradford Club. 
New York, i860. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 627 

//. Biography. 

Life and Letters of Fitz-Greene Halleck. Edited by J. G. Wilson. 
New York, 1869. 

///. Criticism. 

New England Magazine, August, 183 1. 
Graham's, September, 1843. 

Southern Literary Messenger, N-ovember 25, 1843. 
The Nation, December 6, 1867, p. 459. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck was the leading poet of the Knickerbocker School, 
the New York admirers of Irving. Although born in a southwestern 
Connecticut town in the late i8th century, he was really a product of 
New York City in the early 19th. He was only seven years younger 
than Irving, and one year than Cooper, and thus subject to the same 
formative influences. None were college graduates; all had educative 
business experience, and all travelled abroad. Coming up to New York as 
a young man, Halleck was taken into the company of the literary and 
of the consciously cultured social class. The people with whom he con- 
sorted were excitedly interested in the English literature of the hour, and 
for the most part were undisturbed by any desire for a native American 
literature.^ They were revelling in "The Lady of the Lake" and "Marmion" ; 
in Campbell's "Pleasures of Hope," Rogers's "Pleasures of Memory," 
Moore's "Melodies," Miss Porter's "Scottish Chiefs" and "Thaddeus of 
Warsaw," and, a little later, in "Waverley," "Guy Mannering," and "The 
Antiquary" — a succession of works that produced, said Halleck, "a wide- 
spread enthusiasm throughout Great Britain and this country, which has 
probably never been equalled in the history of literature." ^ 

With the rest of his generation, he was uncomfortably conscious that 
in actual American life the moon of romance had waned, and the sun of 
commercialism was at high noon. The not unnatural reactions against 
these two sets of facts led him at some times into sentimentalism and at 
others into satire: 

A heart that worshipp'd in Romance 

The Spirit of the buried Time, 
And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance. 

And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme. 
These had been, and I deetned would be 

My joy, whate'er my destiny. 

This regret for the passage of the old days continually recurred in his 
verse, and, particularly, in the lines which he wrote between the ages 
of twenty-five and thirty. It appeared in "Alnwick Castle," "Red- 
Jacket," "A Sketch," "A Poet's Daughter," and "Wyoming," sometimes 
in simple lament at what had been lost and sometimes in protest at what 
had replaced it. 

»"Life and Letters," ed. J. G. Wilson, pp. 262-3. »Ibid., p. 162. 



628 AMERICAN POETRY 

The people of to-day 
Appear good, honest, quiet men enough. 
And hospitable too — for ready pay; 
With manners, like their roads, a little rough 
And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though tough. 

Yet not despairing entirely, he celebrated the chivalry of the Revolu- 
tion in "The Field of Grounded Arms," made his greatest stroke for 
popular favor v^^ith the oft-declaimed "Marco Bozzaris," and, as a man of 
seventy-five, came out in "Young America" vi^ith one more flash at the 
sound of battle, though, rather sadly, with one concluding bit of cynicism 
at the end of this valedictory. 

Such a discontent as he felt virith the uninspired and uninspiring 
qualities of American life found its more effective expression in satire. If 
he could not emulate Scott, he could imitate Byron, and, in a mild and 
w^ell-mannered w^ay, he did play v^^ith the measures of "Beppo" and "Don 
Juan," and suggests their author in his lighter moods. "It w^ould be 
heaven," he had said one day in his twenty-third year, "to lounge upon 
the rainbow, and read Tom Campbell." Young Dr. Joseph Rodman Drake, 
standing by, was delightedly eager to share the perch. So their friend- 
ship began, but, working by logical contraries, what they arrived at some 
six years later was the quite different experience of sitting, as it were, 
in a metropolitan bay-window and reading the social signs of the times. 

What they read was recorded in the National Advocate and The New 
York Evening Post, under the signature of "The Croakers." Their success 
was equal to that of Irving and his associates in the, also anonymous, "Sal- 
magundi Papers" of a dozen years earlier. But "The Croakers," through 
the Evening Post, had a much wider circulation than did the independently 
printed "Salmagundi's," and, coming in rapid succession, thirty-five in 
about one hundred days, were far more startling than the earlier series of 
twenty-odd which extended through a whole year. Finally, through their 
more direct satire, which was addressed to city celebrities by name, they 
challenged and held the attention of the townsfolk, who were amused at 
what they read and curious to know where the lightning would next strike. 

The most personal and local of these verses, as one looks back, have 
the least title to respect to-day, for the reason that they rely on immediate 
breakfast-table reading, by offering jaunty impertinences in the place of 
either sense or sentiment. The more general in theme had in them the 
same satirical canniness which belonged to the "Salmagundi's" and, in their 
simple and sometimes brutal directness, must have afforded then, as they 
do now, an immense relief to the reader who had been surfeited on the 
pompous imitations of the would-be classical poets. 

Go on great painter! dare be dull; 

No longer after nature dangle; 
Call rectilinear beautiful; 

Find grace and freedom in an angle: 
Pour on the red — the green — the yellow — 

"Paint till a horse may mire upon it," 
And while I've strength to write or bellow, 

I'll sound your praises in a sonnet. 

So, in "The man who frets at worldly strife," and "To Simon," and "The 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 629 

Love of Notoriety," the young critics used shotguns instead of rifles as 
they popped at cheap pessimism, social extravagance, and self-puffery. 
For three months, from behind the ambush of their pseudonym, they bom- 
barded the delighted city v^^ith their poetical confetti. 

The death of Drake, in September, 1820, which inspired Halleck's most, 
famous lyric, broke up this literary partnership; but before that time 
Halleck had responded to the general applause vi^ith another popular 
satire, "Fanny." This w^as a poem of 175 six-lined stanzas, done in 
Halleck's best Byronesque manner. It v^^as unsigned, like "The Croakers," 
but generally understood to be by one of the same hands. It tells the story 
of the sky-rocket rise and fall of Fanny and her father in wealth and 
social position, a story which gave every opportunity for cynical com- 
mentary on the ways of the world in general and New York in particular. 
In the literature of Manhattan, Stedman's "Diamond Wedding" has been 
the only thing to approach it, and both of them have been broadly and 
keenly applicable to the life of any rapidly growing commercial city. 

When, two years later, at the age of about thirty, Halleck had written 
"Marco Bozzaris," the best expression of his romantic side, he had risen 
to his highest point. With his nicety of taste, his keen eye, his fund of 
humor, and his frankness, he was an established literary and social 
favorite. He was the kind of handsome and courtly gentleman of the 
old school, as was Irving also, who became a friend and associate of the 
leading financier of the day. There was nothing restless or disconcerting 
about him. He was a critic of manners, but not of the social order. He 
probably knew little of Emerson, and he certainly disapproved of Whitman. 
In 1848, when less than sixty years, of age, he went back to his native 
town in Connecticut, and lived there till after the Civil War, totally 
unaffected as a man of letters, except as the conflict seems to have silenced 
him. But he was not alone, for when he sank into eclipse, all the "Knicker- 
bockers" disappeared with him. Their vogue was over. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878) 

Bryant was born at Cummington, Mass., in 1794. He could trace his 
descent through both parents to the oldest Plymouth stock. After his 
early education, which was largely under clergyman tutors, his father, a 
country doctor, was able to send him to college, at Willian!s, for only one 
year. He subsequently became an attorney, and practised law from 181 6 
to 1825. Within the first three years, he had come to feel a repugnance 
to drudging "for the dregs of men," ^ and the tastes of success given him 
by his verses in the North American Review, his Phi Beta Kappa poem 
at Harvard in 1821, and his volume of poems in the same year, made 
natural his decision to go into magazine work in New York in 1825. The 
New York Review and Athenceum Magazine failed in a year, but after a 
few months of return to the law, Bryant was offered the assistant editor- 
ship of The New York Evening Post. ' Three years later, in 1829, he suc- 

* See closing stanza of "Green River." 



630 AMERICAN POETRY 

ceeded to the editorship, which he held with distinction until his death, 
in 1878. 

Although the shift from law to journalism did not withdraw him from 
"the sons of strife," it made him more than an adjuster of their difficulties. 
As a moulder of public opinion, he was doing God's work in "Quickening 
the restless mass that sweeps along." ^ His seven trips abroad, and his 
nine publications of poetry in book form, after he came to New York, 
prove that his life was not utterly absorbed in the routine of newspaper 
editing. 

Bryant's career as a poet was very long, extending from the prepara- 
tion, at thirteen, of a volume of school poems, paraphrases and transla- 
tions, to the writing of "A Lifetime" and "The Flood of Years," sixty- 
eight years later, in 1876. Volumes of poems from his pen appeared in 
1808, 1821, 1831, 1834, 1836, 1842, 1844, 1854, 1863, 1870, 1872. 

/. Texts. 

Poems, Vols. Ill and IV, in Life and Works of W. C. Bryant, by 
Parke Godwin. New York, 1883. 

Prose, Vols. V and VI, in Life and Works of W. C. Bryant, by 
Parke Godwin. New York, 1883-1884. 

Poetical Works. "Roslyn" edition, 1903. 

//. Biography. 

Life and Works of W. C. Bryant, Vols. I and II, by Parke Godwin. 
New York, 1883. 

W. C. Bryant (American Men of Letters), by John Bigelow. 
W. C. Bryant (English Men of Letters), by W. A. Bradley. 

///. Criticism. 

Poets and Poetry of America, by Churton Collins. 
Atlas Essays, by G. H. Palmer. 
Works of E. A. Poe, Vols. VIII, IX, X, XIII. 
Poets of America, by E. C. Stedman. 
America in Literature, by G. E. Woodberry. 

The Nation, "Growth of Thanatopsis," by Carl van Doren, Vol. 
CI, p. 432. 

IV> Supplementary. 

Publication of Century Association on the Bryant Festival, Novem- 
ber 5, 1864. 

The Bryant Memorial Meeting, November 12, 1878. 

The most startling event that took place in Bryant's long poetic career 
was the publication of "Thanatopsis," in 1817. It appeared in che midst 
of an extremely arid period in American literature, and of a correspond- 
ingly fruitful one in England. Southey had only recently become poet 
laureate, and Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Shelley, and Keats 

* See "Hymn of the City" and also "I broke the Spell that Held me Long," and "I 
Cannot Forget with What Fervid Devotion." 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 631 

were all at the height of their powers. In America, at this time, however, 
poetry quite properly shared the fate of Wordsworth's Lucy, "whom there 
were none to praise. And very few to love." In the period from 1813 
to 1 81 7, when, in addition to the English poets mentioned above, Crabbe, 
Campbell, Rogers, Hunt, Jane Austen, and Maria Edgeworth were pour- 
ing forth their best; the finest that America had produced was AUston's 
"Sylphs of the Seasons," Payne's "Juvenile Poems" and "Lispings of the 
Muse," Carey's "Olive Branch," Mrs. Sigourney's "Moral Pieces," Pier- 
pont's "Airs of Palestine," and — the one volume worth remembering — 
Freneau's "Poems on American Affairs." James K. Paulding was per- 
haps the best known native writer; Irving was in his decade of silence 
between the "Knickerbocker History" and "The- Sketch Book," and Cooper 
and Halleck and Drake had not published anything. Naturally, the appear- 
ance of a great poem would have been sufficiently amazing even if it had 
not been composed by a boy in the 'teens. But, for this fact, Bryant has 
had, in a way, to suffer ever since, for popular estimation has neglected 
or refused to recognize that in the length of his career he ever showed 
any real development in artistry or increase in power. 

As a matter of fact, "Thanatopsis" was an extraordinary combination 
of boyishness and genius. The genius lay in its fine mastery of blank 
verse, in its free and sonorous rhythmic flow. The boyishness resided in 
Bryant's quite natural inclination to make his own statement of the theme 
that "All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity." He 
was at the stage in life where such meditations rise in a young man's mind 
as were recorded in poem after poem of his until he went down to New 
York, where life became more fascinating to him than death. He came 
from an ancestry that made the Hebraic ^ application in the concluding 
lines as natural as the last couplet in Milton's sonnet "On arriving at the 
Age of Twenty Three." He lived in a period when the influence of the 
"Graveyard Poets," Blair, White, and Porteus, was widely prevailing, 
and he was in part stimulated to the "Thanatopsis" writing as a commentary 
on and a reply to White.^ 

The wonder of the poem is, therefore, not that it represented unusual 
maturity of thought, but that it gave evidence of such poetic skill that 
Dana should have exclaimed upon seeing it ". . . no one on this side 
of the Atlantic is capable of writing such verses." 

In respect to its poetic form, Bryant, perhaps, did not excel this in any 
other of his youthful efforts or even in the work of his later years. In 
content and general pervasive effect of his point of view, his work, as a 
whole, was quite in harmony with it as long as he remained in the little 
New England towns, but quite different after he had thrown himself into 
the metropolitan tide of affairs. Up to about 1829, when he was thirty-five 
years old, Bryant's thought was prevailingly self-conscious and strongly 
tinged with religious sentimentalism. The religious predilection was born 
in him, the self-consciousness was the characteristic of his immaturity, 
the sentimentalism belonged to his literary generation. He was like any 

^ See Matthew Arnold's "Culture and Anarchy," chapter on "Hebraism and Hellenism." 
* See "The Nation," Vol. 101, p. 432. Article by Carl van Doren on "Growth of 
Thanatopsis." 



632 AMERICAN POETRY 

other impressionable youth in being a part of all he looked upon, and in 
his literary vista, little that he looked upon was real. "It was a needle- 
work world, a world in which there was always moonlight on the lake 
and twilight in the vale ; where drooped the willow and bloomed the eglan- 
tine, and jessamine embowered the cot of the village maid; where the lark 
warbled in the heavens, and the nightingale chanted in the grove 'neath 
the mouldering, ivy-mantled tower." ^ 

Poem after poem in these years was given a personal religious appli- 
cation — not only "Thanatopsis," but "The Waterfowl," "A Forest Hymn," 
"The Poet," and even "To the Fringed Gentian." Poem after poem was 
overshadowed by the thought of dissolution. The "Hymn to Death," he 
acknowledged, was built upon a fallacy, but he preserved it nevertheless. 
He thought of the forest as a vast cemetery, of June as a pleasant month 
to die in, of the flowers as reminders of the brevity of human life. In 
two bits of reminiscence, he sentimentalized over his abandonment of 
poetry, evidently feeling that poetry was nothing deeper than a mildly 
emotional obligato to life — such a thing as Monument Mountains 2 are 
made of. 

But during the latter half of his life the general tenor of his work was 
changed. Entrance into the world of opinions gave him more of an 
interest in life itself, and less in its embellishments. Journalism, absorbed 
most of his time and strength, and participation in public meetings no 
small share of his margin. There was no complete reversal of attitude 
in Bryant's work, but he suffered a sea change of which there were two 
broad indications. The first and less important was that nature did not 
inevitably lead to mournful or even sober thoughts. "The Planting of the 
Apple Tree" is serenely recorded in "quaint old rhymes"; the stanzas on 
"Robert of Lincoln" are positively jolly. 

The other sign of change appears in the increasing proportion of poems 
which, like his editorial articles and his commemorative addresses, were 
definitely related to life. He went on* at once, in the "Hymn of the City," 
tor celebrate the presence of God. in town as well as country,^ and, in "The 
Battle Field," to display his zest for justice and good* citizenship! "The 
Antiquity of Freedom" and "O Mother, of a Mighty Race" are both songs 
of democracy. So, too, with direct reference to the Civil War, are "Our 
Country's Call" and the small group that follow it. And, in a larger way, 
the "Song* of the Sower" chants an ample chorus upon the implications 
of democracy, which deserves more attention than it has yet received. 
It is the logical predecessor of Timrod's "Cotton Boll" in its broadest 
sweep, and of Lanier's "Symphony" in its sense of the invading forces 
of industrialism. 

At the very end of his career, in his "Lifetime" and "The Flood of 
Years," he seems, at first glance to have reverted to his youthful point of 
view; but this is not a fair statement of the case, for old age may justify 
what was forced and exotic in young manhood. It was natural enough 
that at eighty-two the retrospect should be tinged with sadness and that 



» "Nathaniel Parker Willis," by H. A. Beers, p. 78. 

2 See text, pp. 171-173. 

^ Compare Wordsworth's sonnet "Composed upon Westminster Bridge." 



1 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 633 

the prospect should include the life after death. The two poems, taken 
together, are an old man's fitting valedictory. Like his salutatory to the 
world at large, they present another glimpse of death, but this time it is 
a fair prospect of 

A present, in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
Be broken. 

In any general estimate of Bryant's contribution to American life and 
literature, the estimates of his contemporaries at his literary birthday 
party of 1864 are highly suggestive. Holmes sang his praises — rather 
vaguely — as a nature lyrist, a poet of solemn cadences which baffled the 
commentator. By the implications in his allusions to "Thanatopsis," the 
Bryant of seventy could hardly aspire to do more than emulate the Bryant 
of seventeen. This is, in all likelihood, the uncritical but prevailing estimate 
even of to-day. Properly expanded, it gives him recognition for his first- 
hand treatment of native life and scenery, and for his emancipation from 
the inflexible verse forms of the i8th century. Lowell went a step farther 
in paying tribute to Bryant as a poet of faith and freedom, and as a 
publicist who gave heart and life to the nation during the crisis of the 
Civil War. In this respect, the author of "The Song of the Sower" was 
quite as much of a pioneer as in his poems about birds and flowers. He 
was far ahead o£ most of his countrymen in his sense of America as a 
nation among nations — not merely in the half petulant mood of "O 
Mother of a Mighty Race," but better in his sense of new occasions and 
new duties. Finally, Whittier extolled Bryant as a man. With all 
admiration for his art. 

His life is now his noblest strain 
His manhood better than his verse. 

In the light of these tributes, his own lines on "The Poet," written in this 
same year, are very much to the point. An artist's criticism of his art 
is almost always defective or^ fragmentary, but almost always illuminating 
in its presentation of his ideal. In 1864, Bryant was writing of the poet 
of stirring times, and so he wrote of flame, burning words, tears, and 
passion. To contrast these stanzas with Lowell's earlier criticism of 
Bryant's* "iceolation" in "The Fable for Critics," is to ignore the difference 
between '48 and '64. In those sixteen years, Lowell had changed his 
mind partly because, Bryant had changed his method. For the fact 
is that Bryant sometimes deserved Lowell's comments and sometimes 
deserved his own. 

He was what is often meant by the term "classical" in showing a refined 
and controlled sense of form, and in giving evidence of serene poise where 
there was no occasion for excitement; but he was also in the truest sense 
classical in giving vent to depth and heights of feeling on themes which 
evoked feeling. As a philosopher, he was not so much restrained as quietly 
meditative. As a participant in the life of his generation, he was full 
of ardor. 



634 AMERICAN POETRY 



RAIvPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-1882) 



1 



Ralph Waldo Emerson, descendant of a line of Puritan clergymen, was 
born in Boston in 1803. The death of his father in 181 1 left the family 
in straitened circumstances, yet the courageous mother succeeded in 
educating all five of her sons. Ralph prepared for college in the Boston 
Latin School, and matriculated at Harvard in 1817. He was at no time 
distinguished as a student. After graduating at eighteen, he taught school 
■ — an occupation he cordially disliked — and later entered the Harvard 
Divinity School ; the family tradition was clerical. 

Perhaps the chief event of his brief ministry was the leaving of it. 
In 1832 he found that he could not conscientiously administer the com- 
munion, and he resigned the- pastorate — it was the Hanover Street Church 
in Boston. He had been married in 1829 to Ellen Tucker, to whom several 
love lyrics are addressed,^ but her health was frail, and she died two 
years later. To obtain surcease from sorrow, Emerson went abroad, 
founding on this journey (1832-1833) his lifelong friendship with Carlyle. 

Upon his return to Concord, the poet began a long and serene career 
as a lecturer and writer. "The American Scholar" (1837), and the Divinity 
School address (1838), aroused controversies whose proportions we cannot 
now appreciate. His first book, "Nature," appeared in 1836; the famous 
"Essays" (first series) in 1841, and the second series of essays in 1844. 
He was married to Lydian Jackson in 1835. 

The chief events of Emerson's life are largely domestic : the loss of 
one brother in 1834, and of another in 1836, commemorated in the "Dirge," 
and the death of his eldest son in 1842, that "sweet and wonderful boy," 
who lives forever in the "Threnody." Yet his life was golden, enriched 
by many famous friends and by the reverence of the public which he 
slowly won. In the storm and stress preceding the Civil War, Emerson 
took an inconspicuous personal part, but his influence was all-pervading. 
To him, said Lowell, "the young martyrs of our Civil War owe the 
astounding strength of [their] thoughtful heroism." 

His first collection of poems appeared in 1846 (1847) ! another collec- 
tion, "May Day and Other Pieces," in 1867, and "Select Poems" in 1876. 

Emerson made several trips to Europe and innumerable American 
journeys, on which he lectured to audiences that always reverenced him, 
if they could not always understand him. About 1870 his mind began to 
fail, but, fortunately, his work was done. He died April 24, 1882. 

/. Texts. 

Centenary Edition of the Works of R. W. Emerson, 12 vols., 1904, 
Vol. IX. New Household Edition, i vol. 

//. Biography. 

See Bibliography appended to His Life, Writings and Philosophy, 
by G. W. Cooke, for minor references. Memoir, by J. B. Cabot, 2 vols. ; 

» See "Thine Eyes Still Shined," p. 196. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 635 

Life, by O. W. Firkins (uniform with Centenary Edition) ; Life, by 
O. W. Holmes (American Men of Letters) ; Life, by G. E. Woodberry 
(English Men of Letters) ; Emerson the Lecturer, by J. R. Lowell, 
in Literary Essays, Vol. I 

///. Criticism. 

Discourses in America, by Matthew Arnold ; American Prose Mas- 
ters, by W. C. Brownell ; Emerson and Other Essays, by J. J. Chapman ; 
Partial Portraits, by Henry James; Memories and Studies, by William 
James ; Interpretations of Poetry and Religion, by George Santayana. 

Contemporary reviews of Emerson's poetry in periodicals include: 
Atlantic Monthly, Vol. XX, p. 376, by W. D. Howells; Christian 
Examiner, Vol. XLII, p. 255, by C. A. Bartol; Democratic Review, 
Vol. I, p. 319; Literary World, Vol. XI, p. 176, by F. H. Hedge; 
Nation, Vol. IV, p. 430, by C. E. Norton; North American Review, 
Vol. LXIV, p. 406, by F. Bowen; Vol. CV, p. 325, by C. E. Norton; 
Vol. CXXXVI, p. I, by E. P. Whipple; Radical, Vol. II, p. 760, by 
D. A. Wasson. 

We who have assimilated much of Emerson's doctrine find it hard to 
realize that when he first began his work he was commonly regarded as a 
dangerous, fanatical, and revolutionary thinker. Only by recalling the 
period from 1830 to 1845, the time of his pioneer activities, can we under- 
stand why the mild heterodoxy of the Divinity School address raised the 
storm it did. It was a period when the dreams and enthusiasm of setting 
up a new state had faded, and when the moral quickening of the anti- 
slavery agitation had not yet come. In religion, a stern and heroic Calvin- 
ism had decayed into theological schools, which "ran to systems," as 
Professor Hart remarks; when respectable people made of Sunday "a 
serious and depressing day," and disapproved mightily of Emerson and 
Abolition; when the foundation of missions in Africa did not hinder the 
breeding of slaves in Carolina, and the Washington temperance societies 
flourished comfortably' beside the manufacture of New England rum. 

Politically, it was our most distressing period. Local government, out- 
side of New England, was vividly bad. In national affairs there was the 
Missouri compromise (1820), a measure which entirely dodged the moral 
issue. It was the period of our two indefensible wars — the Black Hawk 
disgrace of 1832 and the Mexican War of 1846-1847. Tocqueville, Emer- 
son, and Carlyle were all observing the new democracy with wondering 
eyes and delivering verdicts that deepened in pessimism; their Jeremiads 
are excusable only when we remember Mr. Jefferson Brick and the Hon. 
LaFayette Kettle. 

New England was the intellectual head of the nation, but it was, as 
Mrs. Trollope was fond of telling us, a head without a body, and even 
in Massachusetts Horace Mann "exhausted his vocabulary" describing the 
wretched state of the public schools. Elsewhere says a careful historian, 
"the leading feature of American society was its commonplaceness." 
Dickens and Miss Martineau agreed that our manners were intolerable 
("Martin Chuz^l^wit" began publishing in January, 1843), and where we 



636 AMERICAN POETRY 

did not eat with our knives we paid an exaggerated deference to women 
that led to prudery : "the corset could not be named to ears polite, and 
Philadelphia ladies roamed by pairs through the statuary hall, and fled 
at the sound of a male footstep." The usual accompaniments of an 
apathetic moral order began to appear — hysterical reformers, character- 
ized by Emerson in a gently satirical essay ; great revival movements ; the 
founding of the Mormons in 1830, and the monotonous rise and fall of 
various socialistic communities. 

Yet the ground swell of a change was already felt. As always, col- 
leges and academies were excellently endowed. From 181 5 to 1840 was 
the period of our scholastic migration to German universities. The 
Lyceum movement could flourish, and if the theatre was in a depressing 
state, music received liberal support. It was the period, too, of Irish and 
German immigration, which boded well for the republic. In letters, though 
the "Dial" died in 1844, largely of inanition, the golden age of American 
literature had dawned, and men of letters were receiving hearty support 
from earnest men throughout the nation.^ 

To the youth of this time, Emerson's messages came like trumpet calls, 
so that at the Phi Beta Kappa address "young men went out from it as 
if a prophet had been proclaiming, 'Thus saith the Lord.' " To them his 
appeal was largely as an essayist and lecturer, but to many minds nowa- 
days, as Woodberry says, his poems seem of higher value than his prose. 
Emerson felt freer to express himself in verse, where he had no audience 
to consult, so that many poems were written at first for no eye but his 
own. Many more are terser, more pregnant phrasings of the essays, and 
poem and essay must often be read together for a full understanding 
of each. For these reasons, we come closer to the real Emerson in his 
verse. 

At the same time, we must not forget that there is wide disagreement 
as to his merits in this field. Matthew Arnold, for instance, finding his 
poetry neither simple, sensuous, nor passionate, concluded in his lordly 
fashion that Emerson was no poet at all. Whether we agree with Arnold 
or with Woodberry, we must admit that much of the adverse criticism has 
been foolish, and that much of it has come from the school which quarrels 
with an author because he does not have the qualities of somebody 
else. With Whitman, Emerson is probably our most individual American 
poet. 

In general, the poems are of two kinds : patriotic, occasional, and per- 
sonal pieces, like the "Concord Hymn" and the "Ode to Channing," and 
poems which express some aspects of Emerson's philosophy. Of the first 
class, the student can judge for himself; some of them have the quaint 
felicity of MarVell, and some, as Holmes wrote, seem to have been carved 
on marble for a thousand years. It is the second class, with their un- 
kempt rhymes, their disillusioning metres, and their frequent obscurity, 
that repulses many readers. We no longer stop college professors on the 

* For excellent studies of this period see A. B. Hart, "Slavery and Abolition" in the 
American Nation series, chaps, i and ii; and James Schouler, "History of the United States 
of America," vol. iv., chap. 13. 

See also Emerson's essays on "The New England Reformers" and "The Chardon Street 
Convention." 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 637 

street corners to find out what "Brahma" is about, but we may well be 
puzzled before such doggerel as 

In the woods he travels glad, 
Without better fortune had. 
Melancholy without bad. 



or the obscurity of 



Bring the moonlight into noon 
Hid in gleaming piles of stone. 



which seems to disrupt the laws of heaven and earth and common sense 
all together. 

Many passages become clearer if we read the appropriate essays first.^ 
Others are more intelligible when we remember that Emerson held a 
peculiar view of the poet's function. Emerson was a transcendentalist ; 
hence, like Richter, he felt that poet was interchangeable with prophet. 
Such a bard is admirably pictured in Emerson's own essay on the poet 
("Essays," Second Series), and, less clearly, in such poems as "Merlin," 
"Guy," "Bacchus," and "Saadi." The striking points of the essay are the 
emphasis on the ejaculatory nature of the poet, on the relation of thought 
and symbol, and the contempt for metre, rhyme, and anything that might 
cramp the direct utterance of the god. There, seems no reason to suppose 
that Emerson did not himself write verse "with the intellect inebriated 
by nectar." 

"There is no fact in nature," he says in the essay, "which does 
not carry the whole sense of nature." If we examine such a poem as 
"Heroism" : 

Ruby wine is drunk by knaves. 
Sugar spends to fatten slaves, 
Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons; 
Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons. 
Drooping oft in wreaths of dread. 
Lightning-knotted round his head; 
The hero is not fed with sweets. 
Daily his own heart he eats; 
Chambers of the great are jails. 
And head-winds right for royal sails. 

we find it merely a succession of images. At the end, as Mr. Firkins 
says, two questions are equally pertinent — why so many images ? and why 
not twice as many? But since each image represents the whole of the 
poem, as each fact represents the whole of nature, this circular structure 
must always follow. Emerson frequently writes in this repetitive fashion. 
Whether this is great poetry or no, petulance alone will deny that lines 
of startling beauty often result. After jog-trotting through half a dozen 
prosy statements, Emerson, with no apparent effort, will fling out a 

* For most of the poems quoted here parallel passages in the prose are easily found. 
The following more difficult poems are clearer if the suggested essay be read first: 
"Written in Naples" and "Written in Rome" — the essay on "History"; "Each and All" 
— "Compensation"; "The Problem" — the essays on "Art" and "Compensation"; "Merlin" — 
"The Poet" (essay); "The World Soul" — "Nominalist and Realist" and "The Over-soul"; 
"Hamatreya" — "Compensation"; "Musketaquid" — "Nature"; "Etienne de la Boece" — the 
essay on "Friendship"; "Brahma" — "Circles" and "The Over-soul." 



638 AMERICAN POETRY 

jewel five words long that more careful poets, despite their polishing, 
never achieve. Next door to so painful a couplet as 

And summer came to ripen maids 
To a beauty that not fades 

we find the grave beauty of 

I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth 

to the end of that felicitous passage. Lines like 

O tenderly the haughty day 
Fills his blue urn with fire, 

once said, are said forever. They display an unexpected and arresting 
observation of beauty in nature that is far above the mere botanizing 
facility of many bards. 

Emerson begins the essay on "Self- Reliance" thus: "I read the other 
day some verses written by an eminent painter which were original and 
not conventional. Always the soul hears an admonition in such lines, let 
the subject be what it may. The sentiment they instill is of more value 
than any thought they may contain." Perhaps that is Emerson's own 
value as a poet. 

J- 

EDGAR ALEAN POE (i 809-1 849) 

Edgar Allan Poe, son of an actress and a disinherited father, was born 
in Boston in 1809. Two years later, on the death of his mother, and the 
disappearance of his father, he was taken in charge by John Allan, a 
Richmond merchant. The schooling which prepared him for his brief 
career at the University of Virginia was partly in England (1815-1820) 
and partly in Virginia. He left the university at the end of the first year 
on Mr. Allan's refusal to pay his heavy gambling debts. From 1827 to 
1829 he served in the U. S. Army, was released and appointed to West 
Point through Mr. Allan's influence, but in 1831 contrived to have himself 
court-martialled and dismissed. 

His life was now linked up with a succession of magazine editorial 
jobs. These included, after two obscure years, the winning of a $100 
prize, offered by the Baltimore Saturday Victor, an assistant editorship on 
The Southern Literary Messenger (1835-1837), another open period, the 
editorship of Burton's Gentleman's Magazine (1839-1840) and of Graham's 
Magazine (1841-1842), miscellaneous writing, a minor position on The 
Evening Mirror (New York, 1844-1845), the founding and failure of The 
Broadway Journal (1845), and a contributorship to Godey's Lady's Book 
(1846-1847). 

During most of this struggle Poe was happy in the love of his girl-wife, 
Virginia Clemm, whom he married in 1836. She became a confirmed in- 
valid soon after the marriage. The nervous strain upon Poe was great; 
her death in 1847 was a shock to him; and, as a result, the last two years 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 639 

of his life, Poe was himself in continuous bad health. In July, 1849, he 
visited Richmond, which he left the last of September. On October 3, 
he was found unconscious in a polling place in Baltimore, the victim 
either of foul play or of intemperance. He died four days later. 

/. Texts. 

The best complete editions are the Virginia Edition, 17 vols, (in- 
cluding life and letters), edited by James A. Harrison, T. Y. Crowell 
& Co., 1902; Poe's Works, 10 vols, (with memoir, critical introductions, 
and notes), edited by E. C. Stedman and G. E. Woodberry, Stone 
& Kimball, Chicago, 1894- 1895, now published by Charles Scribner's 
Sons, N. Y. The best single volume editions of the poems are the 
volume of this last set containing the poems, with Notes by both 
editors and Introduction by Stedman, J. H. Whitty's The Complete 
Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, Houghton Mifflin Co., 191 1, and Killis 
Campbell's The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, Ginn & Co., 1917. 

//. Biography. 

Griswold's Memoir (revised edition, New York, 1858, suppressed), 
cannot be disregarded, but requires constant correction. See John H. 
Ingram, Life, Letters, and Opinions of Edgar Allan Poe, London, 
1886 (out of date but impartial) ; George E. Woodberry, Edgar Allan 
Poe (American Men of Letters Series), Boston, 1884 (standard) ; 
James A. Harrison, Life and Letters of Poe, 1904; Emily Lou- 
vriere, Edgar Poe : Sa Vie et son CEuvre, Paris, 1904 ; John Macy, 
Edgar Allan Poe (Beacon Biographies), 1907; J. H. Whitty, Memoir, 
in his edition of Poe's Poems, 191 1; W. P. Trent, Edgar Allan Poe 
(to be published in the English Men of Letters Series). 

///. Criticism. 

French: See, besides Louvriere's volume, Charles Baudelaire, Edgar 
Poe, sa vie et ses oeuvres, in his translations, Histoires extraordinaires, 
also. Notes nouvelles, in the supplementary volume; Arvede Barine 
(Mme. Cecile Vincens), Nevroses; Anatole France, La vie litteraire. 
Vol. IV; Emile Hennequin, Ecrivains francises; Stephane Mallarme, 
Divagations, and Poemes de Edgar Allan Poe; Camille Mauclair, 
Edgar Poe Idealogue, in L'art en Silence. Most of these writers have 
been influenced by Poe.' 

British: J. C. Collins, The Poetry and Poets of America; Ed- 
mund Gosse, Questions at Issue; R. H. Home, Letter to the Poe 
Memorial; R. H. Hutton, Contemporary Thought and Thinkers; 
Andrew Lang, Letters to Dead Authors, and preface to his edition 
of the poems (1883) ; John M. Robertson, New Essays towards a 
Critical Method; Leslie Stephen, Hours in a Library, First Series; 
A. C. Swinburne, Under the Microscope, and Letter to the Poe 
Memorial. 

American criticism includes much that is mere repetition. See, 
however, W. M. Baskerville, Southern Writers; Joel Benton, In the 
Poe Circle; Lewis E. Gates, Studies and Appreciations; C. W. Kent, 



640 AMERICAN POETRY 

Poe the Poet; H. W. Mabie, Poe's Place in American Literature 
(Vol. II, Virginia Edition of the Works) ; Brander Matthews, Intro- 
duction to the Study of American Literature, Chap. XII ; P. E. More, 
Shelburne Essays, First Series; M. J. Moses, Literature of the 
South; H. T. Peck, Studies in Several Literatures; C. F. Richardson, 
American Literature, Vol. Ill, Chap. IV; E. C. Stedman, Poets of 
America, and Introduction in Vol. X of the Stedman- Woodberry Edi- 
tion, and the Introduction to Poe in Southern Writers; Barrett 
Wendell, Stelligeri and Other Essays; G. E. Woodberry, America in 
Literature, Chap. IV. Bibliographies are appended to the principle 
editions; see, especially, Vol. X of the Stedman- Wo.odberry edition. 

For one whose lasting work is so slight in quantity, Poe labored in 
an astonishing number of fields. He is the first short-story writer of 
genius, the first American critic, and the first native poet to propound a 
unique and influential theory of verse. In the field of short-story writing, 
though he borrowed from E. T. A. Hoffman ^ and DeQuincey, and though 
Voltaire wrote detective stories before him, Poe's work is unique and 
creative. In the detective story, all workers owe something to Poe, so 
that he is the captain of a motley band containing Wilkie Collins, Emile 
Gaboriau, Victorien Sardou, "Sherlock Holmes," "Lupin," R. L. Stevenson, 
the "Father Brown" of G. K. Chesterton, and the "thrillers" of Anna 
Katherine Green. As the founder of the scientific hoax, and the scientific 
short-story, Poe inevitably suggests Jules Verne and the earlier romances 
of Mr. H. G. Wells. In another department — that of the fantastic and 
horrible — it is sometimes said that Poe has no followers ; but one has only 
to recall the mystery stories of Fitz James O'Brien, and the masterpieces 
of horror by Ambrose Bierce in America; the "Suicide Club" and the 
"Thrawn Janet" of Stevenson) Kipling's "The Return of Imray" or "The 
Man Who Would Be King," A. T. Quiller-Couch, and Hardy (notably 
"The Withered Arm") in England; Baudelaire, Daudet, and Zola in 
France, and the belated German school, to, see how widespread Poe's 
influence has been. The present writer cannot but help thinking, too, 
that Jack London, Conrad, and Kipling (notably in "A Matter of Fact") 
owe something of the power of their sea-scrapes to Poe's marine studies 
in "A Manuscript Found in a Bottle" and "Arthur Gordon Pym." Finally, 
Poe enunciated, in the "Philosophy of Composition," the technique adopted 
by such masters as Maupassant and Kipling — indeed, by everyone who 
succeeds with the short-story at all. 

To his own time, Poe was best known as the ruthless critic whose orbit 
no one could predict. Though many of his stories and poems were widely 
read, the conditions of periodical literature were such as to bring little 
lasting fame to writers ; material was passed from magazine to magazine 
much after the fashion of the newspaper "filler" to-day, and, in the pas- 
sage, much of it became perforce anonymous and evanescent. Poe's 
criticism, however, was too smashing to be clipped by the average magazine 
editors, and the proprietor of a journal to which Poe became temporarily 
attached, therefore, counted on a sure increase in his own circulation as 

^ See Gustav Gruener's article in "Publications of the Mod. Lang. Assoc," xix, p. 1, ff. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 641 

soon as Poe's articles appeared. He was relentless and peculiar, he backed 
every damaging accusation by careful citation from his victim, and if he 
praised, he praised according to a definite theory which might be wrong 
but which could not be misunderstood. It is doubted that the general 
public gained much from his articles; they were craftsman's arguments 
addressed, not to the man who read, but to the man who wrote, and when 
the writer went down to a deserved oblivion, he' dragged his critic^ with 
him. Yet it cannot be wrong, even from a priori reasoning, to suppose 
that fifteen years of such criticism had its effect in raising the standards 
of authorship and art. 

Poe is a deathless refutation of the statement that a poet cannot 
theorize on verse and still write poetry. He worked out his own idea of 
the purposes of poetry, and he consistently wrote his poems according to 
his own theories. Despite the easy jibe that "The Raven" could not 
possibly be produced by the mechanics of the "Philosophy of Composition," 
the fact remains that all of his poems are built on one principle, and 
that Poe probably knew what he was talking about. He was sometimes 
dishonest in matters of fact, but he was usually honest in matters of art. 

A poem may have, in Poe's opinion, no other purpose than to give 
pleasure; its object is not truth, but "the rhythmical creation of beauty." 
Didactic poetry has no place in Poe's theory: Longfellow, he said, was 
all wrong in his idea of the ends of art. Furthermore, the pleasure 
aroused by a poem should be emotional and indefinite, the "value of the 
poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement," but, as "all excitements 
are, through a psychal [sic] necessity, transient," the "degree of excite- 
ment which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained 
throughout a composition of any great length." "Paradise Lost" is, then, 
merely a succession of short poems connected by platitudes.^ This excite- 
ment is "of the soul, quite independent of that passion which is the 
intoxication of the heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of 
the reason." Beauty is the sole end of art. But "beauty of whatever 
kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to 
tears." Hence, the best "tone" for a poem is sadness, to be produced, in 
method, by a refrain, since a refrain in lyric verse "depends for its im- 
pression upon the force of monotone both in sound and thought," and in 
theme, by "the most melancholy of topics most poetical," the death of a 
beautiful woman. Moreover, "the lips best suited for such [a] topic are 
those of a bereaved lover." ^ Thus clearly and concisely is the matter put. 

It has been carelessly assumed that Poe would reduce the world's 
poetry to that part of it which deals with the death of beautiful women, 
but this is surely running an argument into the ground. Poe states merely 
that that poem which will soonest arouse the elevating excitement of soul 
which is the end of poetry, will deal with this theme ; he does not deny the 
possibility of beauty to a hundred other themes — indeed, he specifically 
praises poems as diverse as Shelley's "Serenade," Willis's "The Shadows 
Lay Along Broadway," Pinkney's "Health," and the "Fair Ines" of Hood. 

^ On the other hand, says Poe, "it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief," 
since a very short poem "never produces a profound or enduring effect." He cites the songs 
of Beranger as an instance. 

^ See "The Philosophy of Composition" and "The Poetic Principle" in the "Works." 



642 AMERICAN POETRY 

Nor does he deny the possibility of an ethical intent in poetry; his own 
poems are themselves allegorical (Poe was no Parnassian), and those who 
call him unmoral, in the sense that Lamb spoke of the Restoration drama- 
tists as unmoral, have read him carelessly. What Poe denies is the pos- 
sibility that a bare and naked didacticism or metaphysical reasoning in 
verse can be poetry. 

Poe's theory is plausible, direct, and logical. Like the doctrines of 
Calvin, once the first step is admitted, everything must follow as a matter 
of course. It provides respectable shelter for the many who are bored by 
epics or by "Prometheus Unbound," and "The Ring and the Book." It 
expresses, furthermore, a repugnance which every cultivated reader feels 
to verse that is obviously didactic; one remembers "The Psalm of Life," 
and "Conductor Bradley," Kirke White, and the Cary sisters. But if Poe's 
theory has a certain plausibility when confronted by the "Columbiad" and 
most of Whittier — to keep in the American field — when called upon to 
account for poems as diverse as "Snowbound" or "Ichabod," it falls 
clattering to the ground. "Snowbound" — since it is obviously logical to 
measure the worth of other poems by Poe's own compositions — has no 
strangeness in beauty, it is not melancholy, it is much longer than "The 
Raven," and it does not produce that excitement of the soul that comes 
from reading "Ulalume." As for that flawless piece, "Ichabod," it derives 
its whole force from a fierce moral energy — from truth and passion, and 
not from beauty (to keep Poe's distinction), and the emotions in which it 
traffics are not melancholy, but pity and indignation. Poe's basic error 
lies in his identification of means and effect; in his confusion of the effect 
of the contemplation of beauty with the actual substance of things beautiful, 
and the identity of poetry with a mood. Beauty may or may not be sub- 
jective, wholly or in part; but the high excitement which Poe speaks of 
may spring from a dozen sources other than a poem, or even a piece of 
literature. Moreover — and this concerns long poems — Poe makes no allow- 
ance for the effect of structure — for the pleasure that lies in architectonics, 
in the symmetry, for instance, of the "^neid." Finally, his distribution of 
beauty to the soul, passion to the heart, and truth to the reason — especially 
in view of Poe's use of "beauty" — will not stand examination. 

Critics of Poe will not admit what he admitted of himself, that his was 
a supremely logical mind, and choose rather to regard the ratiocinative 
stories as a puzzling anomaly against the grotesques and arabesques of 
his tales, and the phantasmagoria of his poetry. Rather, the paradox fol- 
lows almost of necessity from the facts. The analytic mind does not reason 
or construct in the large sense in which we speak of Aristotle or Bacon 
as thinkers; it finds its occupation in the process, the chain, the machinery 
of thought. Preeminently, it is analytic, and deductive; it proceeds by the 
method of trial and error; it proceeds, in other words, by a destructive 
method. In its moments of play it finds pleasure in the fantastic, the 
grotesque, and the bizarre. Thus, among mathematicians, we find the 
author of "Alice in Wonderland," a grotesque that has all the power of a 
dream, containing such maddeningly singable verses as the "White Rabbit's 
Testimony" ; and in our. own day nonsense is notably purveyed by Stephen 
Leacock, author of a political economy and of "Behind the Beyond.' 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 643 

Furthermore, the analytic mind will be fascinated by the mysterious, the 
question that cannot be analyzed, the fact without form from which nothing 
can be drawn. Finally, such a mind is fascinated, as Poe was fascinated, 
by death. It needs scarcely to be pointed out that Foe's followers are of 
the analytic order — self-conscious artists, whether pessimists or decadents ; 
that is, they have adopted programmes based on an analysis of aesthetic 
principles, and, like their master, they find fascination in death, and in the 
treatment of death and morbidity. 

At the basis of Foe's poems will be found the same logical impossibili- 
ties as in "Alice in Wonderland." It is impossible for a city to exist in 
the sea in the same way that it is impossible for an egg to move from 
counter to counter of the grocery in "Through the Looking-Glass," but 
once admitting the incredibility, certain minds take pleasure in working 
the thing out as completely as possible. The theatre of "The Conqueror 
Wornv" is simply beyond comprehension ; "The Raven" is, from one angle, 
a tissue of absurdities, and, generally speaking, the Foe landscape — "out 
of space, out of time" — has the same basic absurdity as nonsense verses, 
nightmares, or the etchings of Firanesi. What fascinates, whether in the 
stories of Frank R. Stockton, or in the "Haunted Falace," is the gravity 
with which the impossible is carried out. To this Foe owes much, but, 
of course, not all, of his power. 

As a master of verbal music, Foe is unique. He depends upon none 
of the obvious devices of Swinburne, nor upon the subtler ones of Rossetti; 
he has an eerier music all his own. In "The City in the Sea," consider 
such a passage as : 

There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot. 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie 



No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently 



The viol, the violet, and the vine 



. . . from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 



Here the rhythm is basically iambic, but how smoothly it is changed in 
such a line as: 

On the long night-time of that town 

where long night-time holds up the march of the verse while indefinite 
hours roll leadenly on. Or in the last two quoted lines note how the ow 
sounds gradually slow down the metre preparatory to the adagio of 
gigantically ! Yet, radical as such a metric change may be, the poem re- 
tains its iambic beat throughout, much as a nocturne of Chopin's keeps 



644 AMERICAN POETRY 

its rhythmic outlines beneath any irregularity in the melody. How deli- 
cately the assonance is handled in that unforgettable line : 

Time-eaten towers that tremble not 

and how unobtrusively the same letter does yeoman service in : 

Streams up the turrets silently! 

Such hidden harmonies and rich chords of language suggest only one 
comparison : Poe is the Chopin of poetry. 

Poe's images are always vague, vast, and mysterious : 

Hell rising from a thousand thrones. 
Shall do it reverence. 

What awful thing is this, we ask ourselves, that is seated on a thousand 
thrones somewhere under the sea? So the "Haunted Palace" has no shape 
or substance, and all we know of the shadowy graves in which Poe's 
heroines lie buried is that at the end of an alley of Titanic cypresses 
there is somewhere a "legended tomb," and that another sepulchre lies 
"by the sounding sea." The geography of Poe has no outlines, all is 
conveyed in that hurrying and indistinct imagery by which Milton is 
differentiated from Dante in Macaulay's essay. 

Yet Poe is not to be explained by these devices, nor by any others. He 
remains what all geniuses remain — inscrutable. Out of some darkness rose 
cities and palaces seen of no man else ; lit by impossible stars and fragrant 
with dead men's feet and many colored grasses ; remote, horrible, and 
tremendous. There, girt by dreadful waters, "les morts, les pauvres morts, 
ont de grandes douleurs," and there Poe heard that orchestra sighing fit- 
fully a weird music which he wove afterwards in sadness and desolation 
of soul. In one brief sentence Frederick Myers characterized the genius 
of Swinburne as tinged by "the conviction that has stolen over many 
hearts, that there is a mortality of spirit, as well as flesh." So can we 
speak of Poe. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892) 

John Greenleaf Whittier, son of a Quaker farmer, was born in the east 
parish of Haverhill, Essex County, Massachusetts, 1807, the second of four 
children. He spent his boyhood on the farm, developing that deep affinity 
for rustic things which marks his verse, but, as it proved, permanently 
injuring his health by exposure and overexertion. His first published verse 
appeared in the Newburyport Free Press, June 8, 1826, and occasioned a 
lifelong friendship with William Lloyd Garrison. 

Whittier worked his way through two terms of the Haverhill Academy 
by making shoes; then, in 1829, he began editorial work. The crisis of 
his life came in 1833, when he put aside opportunities for a successful 
political career by writing "Justice and Expediency," an abolition pamphlet. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 645 

He was a delegate to the first convention of the American Anti-Slavery 
Society (1833); he repeatedly forced abolitionist pledges from unwilling 
candidates ; he helped secure Sumner's nomination to the Senate ; he was 
instrumental in importing George Thompson from England for the cause, 
and he was several times in great personal danger. He ceased to write 
imitations of Byron, Moore and Scott, and commenced to pour out a stream 
of anti-slavery poems which circulated from Maine to Kansas. 

In 1843, with "Lays of My Home and Other Poems," he began the pub- 
lication of poems of country life, of New England traditions, and of nature. 
This field he found more and more engrossing. 

Whittier continued, however, to take an active interest in politics up 
to the Civil War. During that struggle he wrote little, but among his 
few productions is "Barbara Frietchie" (1863), the most famous ballad 
of the time. Once the strain was over, "Snowbound" appeared in 1866, 
"The Tent on the Beach" in 1867, 'Among the Hills" in 1869, "Ballads 
of New England" in 1870. These contain his maturest work. He also wrote 
much in prose. 

After the death, in 1864, of his sister, Elizabeth, who was to him what 
Dorothy Wordsworth was to her brother, Whittier's life became un- 
eventful. Like Tennyson's, his old age was prolific. A dinner on his 
seventieth birthday was the occasion of a great outburst of national 
appreciation. Whittier died September 7, 1892. 

/. Texts. 

The complete works are in the Riverside Edition, 7 vols. (I-IV, 
poetical works; V-VII, prose), Houghton, Mifflin Co. The Standard 
Library Edition includes Pickard's Life. The best one-volume edition 
of the poems is the Cambridge Edition, Houghton, Mifflin Co. 

//. Biography. 

Life and Letters of John Greenleaf Whittier, by S. T. Pickard, 
2 vols., 1895. The best brief biography is by G. R. Carpenter (Ameri- 
can Men of Letters). There is also one by T. W. Higginson (English 
Men of Letters). 

///. Criticism. 

E. C. Stedman's Poets of America ; Bliss Perry, Whittier for 
To-day, in Park Street Papers ; Barrett Wendell, Stelligeri and Other 
Essays; George E. Woodberry, Makers of Literature. The Mind of 
Whittier, by Chauncey J. Hawkins (New York, 1904), is an interesting 
study of Whittier's religion. 

What it meant to Whittier to join the abolitionists is hard for us to 
realize. In the thirties. Garrison's followers were utterly despised and 
rejected of men. Some idea of the temper of the times is gained from 
the fact that Dr. Reuben Crandall, of Washington, was thrown into jail 
in the capital of the nation, and kept there until his health was destroyed, 
all because he had given a copy of "Justice and Expediency" to a fellow 
doctor.! jj^ 1835, while Samuel J. May was addressing an anti-slavery 

* Commemorated by Whittier in his poem "Astraea at the Capitol." 



646 AMERICAN POETRY 



meeting in the Christian church of Haverhill, "a heavily loaded cannon had 
been dragged near the church and at the same time the wooden steps at 
the doors had been pulled away. The plan of the miscreants was to break 
the windows and discharge the cannon, thus causing a rush to the doors, 
and, the steps being removed, the audience would have been precipitated 
several feet; limbs would have been broken, and perhaps lives lost in the 
panic." A few days later, Whittier and George Thompson were driven out 
of Concord by mob violence. In October of that year, "men of property 
and standing" united to drag Garrison through the streets of Boston with 
a halter round his neck. In 1837 Whittier was driven out of Newburyport 
by a shower of rotten eggs ; in 1838 the office of the Pennsylvania Freeman, 
of which he was then editor, was sacked and burned by a mob. During 
all this period, as the poet says, "my pronounced views on slavery made 
my name too unpopular for publishers' uses." ^ 

Whittier's "mind was formed, his imagination kindled," says Bliss 
Perry, "and his hand perfected amid the fiery pressure of events." The 
struggle changed the whole tenor of his verse. In considering his place 
as a poet, we may put aside practically everything written before 1834. 
It was then he began to denounce slavery in rhyme, to celebrate some 
martyr to the cause, or pen a poetic obituary, or to phrase a trenchant 
political argument in verse. Strange as it seems to us, verse, for sixty 
years of the 19th century, was the most powerful vehicle for political 
argument. As Bryant's youthful satire on the embargo act (written at 
thirteen) ran to two editions, so immigrants went into Kansas chanting 

We cross the prairie as of old 

The pilgrims crossed the sea. 
To make the West, as they the East, 

The homestead of the Free. 

Whittier was one of the last and greatest of our rhyming pamphleteers. 

Of the anti-slavery poems, the writer himself preserved less than a 
hundred, and, even of these, the greater part are occasional and transitory. 
In their rhetorical appeal they resemble his "Songs of Labor" and Elliott's 
"Corn Law Rhymes." About ten stand out as worth preserving, among 
them the awful denunciation of "Ichabod," the stern thunder of "Expos- 
tulation," "Massachusetts to Virginia," and "Laus Deo," the final paean. 
In this list should be included one of the finest pieces of irony in American 
literature, the "Letter from a Missionary of the Methodist Episcopal Church 
South." In these poems, the emotions of the time live forever. 

The rest of Whittier's work falls into three general classes — ballads 
and narrative verse, poems of country life and nature, and religious poems. 
In the ballads, Whittier's instinct was thoroughly right, so that Stedman 
calls him "our most natural balladist." Yet the attempt to displace Long- 
fellow as a narrative poet in Whittier's favor is an effort to exile Aristides. 
At his best— in "Barclay of Ury" (excepting the last four stanzas), or 
"Skipper Ireson's Ride" — he sometimes equalled Longfellow, but such 

• \'^°'" .^*"di^s of the abolition movement see Harriet Martineau, "TTie Martyr Age 
*•? 11 f'^^if o '' * contemporary report; and Henry Wilson, "History of the Rise and 
Jr'all of the Slave Power in America," 8th ed., Vol. I, especially chaps, xvi, xvii, xx, 
XXI, xxvii; also the life of Garrison by his children (New York, 1885), 2 vpls. 



1 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 647 

poems are rare. If Longfellow wrote "The Wreck of the Hesperus" with- 
out making a trip to the reef of Norman's Woe, in "Barbara Frietchie" 
Whittier has involved himself in a succession of military absurdities. More- 
over, Whittier's Indian stories are all failures, and, structurally or as 
narrative, "The Tent on the Beach" cannot compare with "Tales of the 
Wayside Inn." 

Truth to tell, Whittier was too diffuse to write good narrative, espe- 
cially good ballad narrative. He lacked a sense of form ; he lacked dramatic 
power; he lacked, above all, Longfellow's literary tact, the ability to esti- 
mate his material. Many of Whittier's ballads seem almost on the verge 
of being vivid and real, but, somehow, they never quite succeed. It is 
characteristic that in "Miriam" the setting occupies 258 lines, and the in- 
cident, itself loosely told, only 206. Moreover, Whittier's attempt to 
moralize everything (as in "The Three Bells" and "Conductor Bradley"), 
recalls the misplaced ingenuity of the "Gesta Romanorum." To our taste, 
most of his narrative is insipid. 

As the poet of New England country life, Whittier fares better. Sted- 
man is especially happy in calling him the Teniers of American verse. 
"Snowbound," "The Barefoot Boy," and "Telling the Bees" are as genuine 
as Crabbe, or the Scotch parts of "The Cotter's Saturday Night," or "The 
Ole Swimmin' Hole," and they appeal to the same audiences. Perhaps the 
farm-life of Haverhill was not the farm-life of South Dakota or Texas, 
but it was a life which everybody understands and appreciates and which 
Whittier has fixed imperishably. The charm of such verse lies in its very 
simplicity, in the mood of tender reminiscence with which it is told. Yet 
it is characteristic that he missed the obverse of the picture, those tragedies 
of lonely life which Mr. Robert Frost, working in the same field, has 
powerfully depicted. Unlike Burns, Whittier is narrowed by his rusticity. 

Whittier is less successful as a nature poet. It is commonly supposed 
that the farmer-poet is the most successful nature-poet, but such, in the 
nature of things, cannot be. The farmer is too close to his fields to see 
them. The successful nature-poet is either a philosopher, like Wordsworth, 
or a painter, like Tennyson. Poets must either interpret landscapes or 
view them in a Claude Lorraine glass, and Whittier did neither. He 
was usually content with a catalogue. He was "color-blind and tone- 
deaf," his landscapes lack distinctness, and page after page of his nature- 
verse slips through the mind with the deadly vacuity of five-finger exer- 
cises. He was as incapable of writing 



By the long wash of Australasian seas 



as he was of writing 



Rolled round in earth's diurnal course 
With rocks and stones and trees. 



Exception should be made, however, of "The Last Walk in Autumn," 
which, if it does not paint a landscape, at least conveys a mood. 

Whittier's religion "is the life of his genius, out of which flow his 
ideas of earthly and heavenly content." His poems have furnished hymns 
of wide popularity. Curiously enough, he made rabid attacks on the clergy, 



648 AMERICAN POETRY 

as in "The Pastoral Letter," and his denunciation of Pius Ninth is as 
strong as Swinburne's "Dirse." Yet poems like "The Eternal Goodness," 
and lines like 

The healing of His seamless dress 

Is by our beds of pain; 
We touch Him in life's throng and press, 

And we are whole again, 

have in them the benediction of a vesper organ. They satisfied the mood 
of his own times; it is less likely that they will satisfy ours. Whittier 
attempted no philosophical grasp of things; there is nothing in his faith, 
however beautifully expressed, for the mind to bite on, and readers are 
less and less inclined to turn to Whittier for spiritual consolation. 

In general, it must be confessed that Whittier lacked many essential 
elements of a great poet. "Point, decoration, and other features of mod- 
ern verse," says Stedman, his most sympathetic apologist, "are scarcely 
characteristic of Whittier." He was deficient in sensuous beauty, in passion, 
in color, in thought. He wrote too fluently and too much. He lacked a 
sense of form; he was careless in workmanship; too often he felt called 
upon to write a poem when he did not have a poem to write. Frequently 
he was merely rhetorical. And even as a moralist his ideas were narrow. 
Yet he gave us one unequalled picture of New England country life ; a 
handful of stirring appeals for action; a dozen ballads, and a slight 
quantity of lasting religious verse. Like Longfellow, he is read by the 
children, and his fame is therefore secure. In the American pantheon he 
will always hold an honorable place; but the trend of development is away 
from him, and it seems probable that he will sink to the safe dignity of 
a minor sectional poet. 

J. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) 

Lowell was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. He inherited from his 
father, the Rev. Charles Lowell, his pronounced ethical impulses, and from 
his mother his imaginative temperament and his love of poetry and music. 
His schooling included a stiff drill in Latin and French. He was graduated 
from Harvard in 1838 after a brilliant but mildly erratic career, during 
which he showed marked literary promise. He took his law degree in 1840, 
but did not practise, dividing his energies for the next several years between 
reform activities, including two editorships, and writing poetry, of which 
he published volumes in 1841 and 1844. The agitation over the annexa- 
tion of Texas drew from Lowell the indignant protest of "The Present 
Crisis" (written 1844), and his devotion to an unpopular cause became not 
only as whole-souled as Whittier's, but possibly cost him quite as much. 

The next eight years were the first great productive period in his life, 
culminating with 1848, in which were published "Poems, Second Series," 
the first group of "Biglow Papers," "A Fable for Critics," "The Vision of 
Sir Launfal," and several prose essays. Following on a series of lectures 
on poetry at the Lowell Institute in Boston, 1854-1855, he was called to 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 649 

succeed Longfellow as Smith Professor of French and Spanish at Harvard, 
a position which he held, with brief absences, until 1877. Although a close 
and enthusiastic scholar, he combined this work with equally important 
responsibilities, for he was the first editor of The Atlantic Monthly (1857- 
1861), and, with Charles Eliot Norton, joint editor of The North American 
Review (1864-1872). During these years appeared many of his most 
significant essays on public affairs, as well as the volumes of poetry and 
prose, "The Harvard Commemoration Ode," "Under the Willows and 
Other Poems," "Among My Books," and "My Study Windows." 

From 1877 to 1885 he was Minister first to Spain and then to England. 
He continued writing, chiefly in prose, until the end of his life in 1891, 
publishing "Democracy, and Other Addresses" (1886), "Political Essays," 
and "Heartsease and Rue" (1888), and leaving manuscripts which were 
assembled in the following volumes after his death : "Latest Literary 
Essays and Addresses" (1891), "The Old English Dramatists" (1892), 
"Letters" (two volumes, edited by C. E. Norton, 1892), and "Last Poems" 
(1895). 

/. Texts. 

Complete Works, Riverside Edition, 11 vols., of which 4 contain 
the poems; Cambridge Edition of Poems, i vol. 

II. Biography. 

Letters of Lowell, edited by C. E. .Norton, 2 vols. ; Life, H. E. 
Scudder, 2 vols. ; Life, Ferris Greenslet ; Lowell and His Friends, 
E. E. Hale; Life, E. E. Hale, Jr. (Beacon Biography Series). 

///. Criticism. 

American Prose Masters, W. C. Brownell; Literary Leaders of 
America, Richard Burton ; Essays in .London and Elsewhere, Henry 
James ; International Perspective in Criticism, Gustav PoUak ; Excur- 
sions in Criticism, William Watson; Makers of Literature, G. E. 
Woodberry. 

The Critic, Vol. IX, p. 86, an article by Theodore Roosevelt. 

Any discussion of Lowell's work begins almost instinctively with his 
personality. Like Dr. Johnson's and Charles Lamb's, his individuality was 
more vivid than anything he wrote, and in this respect he is unique in 
American letters. To one who reads the volumes of Norton, Lowell moves 
across the stage of our literature like a being from another world, scat- 
tering essays and epigrams as he goes. Or, to change the figure, he is 
like a transplanted shrub, perhaps a little exotic and precious; as though 
an article from the Edinburgh Review should be printed without comment 
in the Saturday Evening Post. It is at once incredible and hopeful that 
in the welter of inanity which then passed in America for criticism, the 
essay on Chaucer could have been written by a New Englander, and, being 
written, could get itself read. 

Lowell was at once an essayist, a critic, a poet, a college professor, 
a bibliophile, a philologist, a politician, a diplomat, an editor, an orator, a 



650 AMERICAN POETRY 

savant, and a man of the world. In the brilliant quality of his learning, 
and in the versatility of his mind, he seems to belong to the court of 
Francis the First, or to the Italian Renaissance rather than to Puritan 
Massachusetts. It is a tribute to the good sense of the Hayes administra- 
tion that, like Lorenzo the Magnificent, it could send a man of letters on 
a difficult diplomatic mission; it is equally characteristic that the man of 
books succeeded incomparably well as an ambassador. Yet the same man 
who steered a safe course through the perplexities of the Parnell agita- 
tions, wrote "Endymion," offered sound political advice to his countrymen 
in the North American Review, and could turn from a microscopic — even 
a pedantic — examination of Hazlitt to the chthonic satire of the "Biglow 
Papers," and from that to a college class in Dante, or to a technical 
discussion of Old French romances. 

Lowell succeeded Longfellow at Harvard as Longfellow succeeded Tick- 
nor, and the three men curiously exemplify the change in national culture 
of half a century. When Ticknor took the chair, we were literally igno- 
rant, not only of Spanish literature, but of belles-lettres in general. The 
"History of Spanish Literature" is a valuable book because it is expository 
and little more ; because it systematically presents facts for the ignorant. 
The bent of Ticknor's mind, says his biographer, was likewise expository 
and not critical ; on an age innocent of even the names of Spanish writers, 
criticism would have been wasted. Next came Longfellow, whose task it was 
to interpret the facts which Ticknor had presented; to meditate; to make 
of literature an appealing and a necessary thing. Thus when Lowell took 
the chair he found the times were ripe for evaluation, or criticism. Lowell 
could not have written the recondite essay on Masson's "Life of Milton" 
in 1819, but, likewise, Ticknor would have been unnecessary in 1877, when 
Lowell laid down the office. The development between these dates is 
natural, but it becomes well-nigh miraculous when it is recalled that such 
a change took place in less than sixty years. 

There can be no question that Lowell's office was critical, whether in 
politics, diplomacy, or literature. There can be no question that he is the 
foremost American critic. Certain essays of his, notably the "Chaucer" 
and the "Dante," like Carlyle's "Burns" and Macaulay's "Boswell," are 
among the permanently necessary essays. He was an intuitive critic. 
More than that, he was an intuitive critic with a passion for labor. He 
dared not write until his mind was big with his subject. Once begun, the 
essay quickly passed from the narrowness of book reviewing, or the 
petulancies of controversy, to the broad heights of final values. He wrote, 
not for an age, but for all time; his criticism is no more American than 
it is Chinese. 

Yet, because his method was largely intuitive, it cannot be denied that 
the essays are sometimes badly put together : the one on Milton, for in- 
stance, begins as badinage, passes to a favorite philological hobby, then 
to questions of prosody, and ends with a hasty general estimate of the 
poet. Lowell literally knew too much; he was far from bearing all his 
weight of learning lightly like a flower; his facts smothered his form; 
and all these faults have crept into his verse. 

His more orthodox poems fall into two classes, the lyric and the 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 651 

reflective, and with these Lowell labored with something of the devotion 
of a man to a lost cause. Poetry was his left hand. The muse asks more 
than intermittent devotion. None of the Florentines, who were so many 
things, and with whom we have compared Lowell, is numbered among the 
great Italian poets, and, despite his own passion for verse, the American 
is similarly handicapped. The very quality which makes his essays ruins 
his verse : so little of it is indigenous and local. This fact is curiously 
proved: readers do not turn to Lowell as they do to Longfellow, for a 
body of verse ; and though certain lyrics are individual favorites, they are 
such as two or three other poets might have written. "To the Dandelion" 
is Keatsian; many readers confuse "The First Snowfall" with Bryant's 
poem on the same theme, and "The Present Crisis" inevitably suggests 
Whittier. 

Lowell felt this want of permanence all his life. In "L'Envoi" he wrote, 
as he did elsewhere, 

I draw near 
To mate with words the various theme, 
Life seems a whiff of kitchen steam. 
History an organ-grinder's thrum. 
For thou hast slipt from it and me 
And all thine organ-pipes left dumb. 
Most mutable Perversity! 

The bald prosiness of the third line, the repetition of "organ" in two 
senses, and the curiously uncertain metre of this passage are typical of 
his artistic faults. 

One poem of Lowell's, generally slighted, requires more than passing 
comment. This is "Endymion," written toward the end of his life, and 
the only one of his poems, says a biographer, which suggests more than 
it says. It is to a thoughtful reader what "The Vision of Sir Launfal," 
beloved. of school teachers, is to the obvious mind, and it succeeds where 
"The Cathedral" fails. "Endymion" repeats the lesson of "L'Envoi": 

In dreams I see her lay the goddess down 

With bow and quiver ... 

. . . down to mine she deigns her longed-for lips; 

And as her neck my happy arms enfold, 

Flooded and lustred with her loosened gold, 

She whispers words each sweeter than a kiss; _ 

Then, wakened with the shock of sudden bliss. 

My arms are empty, my awakener fled, 

but it ends otherwise : 

My moon is set; my vision set with her; 

No more can worship vain my pulses stir. 

Goddess Triform, I own thy triple spell. 

My heaven's queen — queen, too, of my earth and hell! 

It is one of a small group of poems, including the "Turner's Old Teme- 
raire" and the "Oracle of Gold Fishes" (curiously parodied by Rupert 
Brooke), which suggests that Lowell might have been a great mystic 
poet if he had let himself go. He knew himself to be touched that way, 
but he had humor, which a mystic may not have; he had culture, which 



652 AMERICAN POETRY 

a mystic may not have, and he led an active life far different from the 
Brahmin's whom he satirized. 

It is commonly said that Lowell's chief claim to immortality is the 
"Biglow Papers," certainly the finest satire ever produced in American 
verse. Political poetry is dead in this country, but it died with the second 
series of the "Biglow Papers" grasped in its hand. "Very far from being 
a popular author under my own name," said Lowell in the introduction to 
the series, "I found the verses of my pseudonym copied everywhere ; 1 
saw them pinned up in workshops ; I heard them quoted and their author- 
ship debated," and it was even proved in his hearing that he could not 
have written them. Yet satire, be it never so trenchant, is a frail piece 
of pottery to go floating down to immortality; Caesar and Cicero still hold 
their places in the schools, while Juvenal is read only of scholars; Dryden 
and Voltaire are names, and who reads the "Biglow Papers" to-day? Un- 
gracious as it may seem, it must be admitted that their reputation is kept 
up, like that of less worthy productions, by academic bellows only, and 
though the Mexican crisis of 1916 gave plenty of opportunity for quota- 
tion (from B. Sawin especially), the chilly fact remains that the "Biglow 
Papers" did not figure in public discussion. In addition to being satire, 
they labor under the difficulty of dialect, and dialect verse, despite Burns, 
has not generally proved lasting. Moreover, the fun of Parson Wilbur 
is largely scholar's fun, something like the lame artillery of Middleton's 
wit in "The Egoist." Despite the mass of opinion to the contrary, it 
does not seem that the "Biglow Papers" are Lowell's best claim to poetical 
immortality. 

It is when we come to the odes that we come to the province in which he 
is easily ahead. No nobler expression of American patriotism than the 
"Harvard Commemoration Ode" has ever been shaped in our history; 
the closest approach is Lowell's own work, the "Three Memorial Poems" 
of 1877. The failure of such gifted men as Woodberry, Mackaye, Witter 
Bynner, and others, to achieve lasting results in the difficult field of public 
poetry is sufficient comment on Lowell's achievement. The only produc- 
tions which can be considered in the same breath with Lowell's are Moody's 
"Ode in Time of Hesitation" and "On a Soldier Fallen in the Philippines," 
and these were not meant for recitation. Even English literature, despite 
Dryden, Swinburne and Tennyson, yields no parallel. 

The ode intended for public recital has to grapple with difficulties that 
confront no other branch of poetry. It is perhaps because so few succeed 
in overcoming these difficulties that distinction in the ode is not more highly 
appreciated. The public ode must be appropriate without being occasional. 
It must be dignified, noble, sonorous, and yet hit the average intelligence 
of its audience. It has no place for the delicate music, the overtones of 
closet poetry; it cannot deal heavily in formal figures of speech, which 
might distract from the main trend of the discourse, and yet it must im- 
press its hearers then, and from the printed page, as being the stuff of 
poetry. It must combine with this something of oratory, so that it admits 
of necessity (in the very fact that it is to be recited) a dangerous quan- 
tity of rhetoric. It must have intellectual content without losing in grace 
or beauty; it must have an ethical trend without sinking to the merely 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 653 

didactic; it must have occasional elegances without obscuring the structure 
of the whole. Above all — and in these two particulars many attempts fail 
— it cannot be written in regular stanzaic form, because a long poem in 
regular stanzas can be neither read nor heard without monotony; in the 
regulation of his long and short lines the poet must exercise all his skill 
as metrist, and in the placing of his rhymes he needs all his skill as a 
melodist; and finally, the ode must be vigorous, masculine, and unashamed. 

To make clear Lowell's peculiar eminence in this field, the distinction 
cannot be too often made that the ode to be recited is a far different thing 
from the ode to be read, as different as acting drama is from the dramatic 
monologue. In melody, in richness, in the management of intricate 
metres, in lofty and sustained thought, no English poet working in this 
field has ever surpassed Swinburne's ode written for the three hundredth 
anniversary of the defeat of the Armada. But if the ode were recited to 
an audience gathered to celebrate the occasion, it would put them to sleep. 
Whereas Lowell with his memorial poems not only held his audience, 
he convinced them that what he was speaking was poetry, and when they 
read it afterward they were still convinced. 

For us the occasion of the Harvard Ode has long passed by, but, like 
the audience which heard it, we are still convinced. As poetry it offers 
us such lines of high beauty as this of Truth: 

They followed her and found her 

Where all may hope to find, 

Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, 

Btit beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her, 

and the sudden rapture of 

O Beautiful, my Country! ours once more! 
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair 
O'er such sweet brows as never other wore! 

Passage after passage is packed with memorable phrases : 

Something that gives our feeble light 
A high immunity from Night 

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 
Whom late the Nation he had led. 
With ashes on her head. 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief. 

Before my musing eye 

The mighty ones of old sweep by, 

Disvoiced now and insubstantial things, 

As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings, 

Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust. 

And many races, nameless long ago, 

To darkness driven by that imperious gust 

Of ever-rushing Time. 

Equally fresh are the opening of the Concord Ode : 

Who Cometh over the hills, 
Her garments with morning sweet. 
The dance of a thousand rills 
Making music before her feet? 



654 AMERICAN POETRY 

and the image of the nation (like a mural by Puvis de Chavannes) with 
which the Fourth of July poem begins. 

In fairness, it should be said that the general consensus of opinion holds 
that the "Biglow Papers" are Lowell's chief work. Yet the "Biglow 
Papers," as Lowell himself admitted, are worked in clay, where the Odes 
are cut in marble; Parson Wilbur has not outlived his generation, while 
with the Harvard poem we have forgotten the occasion and remember 
only the large message of ideal Americanism which it voices. Both the 
satires and the odes are original as nothing else in Lowell's volume is 
original, but the odes are the greater and the more lasting work. 

J. 

THE POETRY OF THE CIVIL WAR 

Under the heading of "The Poetry of the Civil War," there are pre- 
sented here together thirty-seven well known and representative pieces of 
verse which are either anonymous or by authors from whom no other 
works are quoted. As every poet cited in this volume who was productive 
from i860 to 1865 wrote his own contributions, the total number of poems 
classifiable under this head — as the index shows — is far more than thirty- 
seven. In Stevenson's "Poems of American History" more than one-fourth 
of the entire book is based on the Civil War. The chief collections 
consulted in making up the present brief list are as follows: 

Texts. 

Lyrics of Loyalty, Personal and Political Ballads, Songs for the 
Soldiers, and Rebel Rhymes, all edited by Frank Moore, New York, 
1864. The Southern Amaranth, edited by Sallie A. Brock. War Poets 
of the South and Confederate Camp Fire Songs. War Songs of the 
South, Richmond, 1862. Lyrics for Freedom, New York, 1862. War 
Songs of the South, London, 1866. The Poetry of the Civil War, 
edited by Richard Grant White, Albany, 1866. 

The system of grouping implied in the titles of Frank Moore's three 
volumes of Northern war poems is available in any generalized statement 
about the contributions from either side. The lyrics of loyalty reveal a 
sober and usually elevated background in the minds of the combatants as 
the war advanced. They progress in the North from the early calls to 
arms in verses like Tilton's "Great Bell Roland" and Edna Dean Proctor's 
"Who's Ready ?" to Thomas Buchanan Read's "Closing Scene" and William 
Winter's "After All"; and in the South from St. George Tucker's "Southern 
Cross" to Father Ryan's "Sword of Robert Lee." They include, moreover, 
certain poems of sentiment, like George H. Boker's "Battle Hymn" or 
"Dirge for a Soldier," Ethel Lynn Beers's "Picket Guard" and the anony- 
mous "Claribel's Prayer," which are poems of war time, and except for 
single phrases are transferable to any time and any conflict. 

The personal and political ballads are, on the other hand, most defi- 
nitely localized, The "Farewell to Brother Jonathan" is incomplete till 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 655 

one has read Holmes's "Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline" 
(see page 440). John R. Thompson's "On to Richmond" and "Farewell 
to Pope" refer to events just as definite as those behind Read's "Sheridan's 
Ride," or Whittier's "Barbara Frietchie." 'These recall aspects or phases 
of the war, events of sometimes national and sometimes individual signifi- 
cance, glimpses of great men, acts of heroism by the common soldiery. 
Their tone is less lofty than in the lyrics of loyalty, and they are bitter 
or jaunty, mournful or sublime, as befits the various subjects. 

The songs for the soldiers are the most spontaneous fruits of the war, 
and, as a group, are far better known than other more literary products. 
"John Brown's Body," "Dixie," "Marching Through Georgia," and "When 
Johnny Comes Marching Home" are known to millions now as they were 
in war times because spirited words were combined with inspiring tunes. 
They became folk poetry and experienced the changes both through oral 
transmission and through deliberate composition of variants to which the 
most popular songs are often subject. A nobler song, like Julia Ward 
Howe's "Battle Hymn of the Republic," with which the populace was less 
inclined to be familiar, came out at the end of the war unscathed from 
the ordeal by song. 

The authorship of the war verses was very widespread. If wars do 
not often stimulate great literature, they do beyond doubt awaken the 
sleeping doggerels that more peaceful times leave undisturbed. As parody 
offers a helping hand to the unoriginal by setting both a metre and a 
sequence of thought, many of the fireside favorites appeared in this masque 
of Poesie in every degree of artistic, amusing, and grotesque disguise. 
Among these were "America," "Dixie," "Excelsior," "The Night Before 
Christmas," "The Star-Spangled Banner," "The Campbells are Coming," 
"John Anderson, My Jo," Gray's "Elegy," Hood's "The Song of the Shirt," 
and even the "Hearts of Oak," which had done valiant service in the War 
of the Revolution. In this secondary zone of martial verse, however, there 
is almost nothing worth preserving which was not composed by authors 
who had at least sectional reputations. The freshest note from those who 
would otherwise be generally forgotten was struck by two Southerners, 
John R. Thompson, author of "On to Richmond" and "Farewell to Pope," 
and Albert B. Pike, author of the best of many versions of Dixie. Thomp- 
son's work is excellent jovial satire. He has an easy mastery of verse, 
control of double and multiple rhymes, which are always effective in 
lighter moods, a pungent humor, and an abounding and infectious jollity. 
When at his best in this vein he challenges comparison with Lowell. 

On the whole, with reference to all of this verse, whether written by 
the most or the least eminent, we are driven to the admission that the dust 
and smoke of battle are suffocating to the Muse. The poets who can soar 
on Pegasus are rather, awkward on Bucephalus, and the lesser ones who 
belong with the infantry are unimpressive spectacles on any sort of steed. 



656 AMERICAN POETRY 



HENRY TIMROD (1829-1867) 

Timrod was born in Charleston, S. C, December 8, 1829. His grand- 
father was a soldier in the War of the Revolution, and his father, a man 
of literary tastes, contracted a fatal illness in the Seminole engagements 
of 1836. The boy was a schoolmate of Basil L. Gildersleeve and Paul 
Hamilton Hayne. For two j^ears, apparently from 1847 to 1849, he was 
enrolled in the University of Georgia, though the period was chiefly 
marked by the writing of adolescent love songs for the Charleston Evening 
News and by a series of contributions to the Southern Literary Messenger 
over the pen-name of Aglaus, which he used till 1853. I^ the meantime, 
he had gone into and out of a law office, and had started a ten-year career 
as a teacher, first as an assistant in a private school, and then as tutor in 
two families. In 1859 ^'^^ ^^^^ book of poems was published, by Ticknor 
& Fields, in Boston. The volume, containing thirteen sonnets and thirty 
longer pieces, was cordially commended by the critics. 

During the Civil War, he was actively writing — as correspondent for 
the Charleston Mercury, as associate editor of the South Carolinian, and 
as author of inspiring songs for the Confederacy. With Sherman's march 
to the sea he was reduced to utter poverty, from which he never recovered 
before his death from a series of hemorrhages in 1867. 

/. Editions. 

Timrod's poems, have appeared as follows: In Boston, i860; in 
New York, edited by P. H. Hayne, 1872 and 1873; in Boston, the 
edition under the auspices of the Timrod Memorial Association, 1899, 
and the same in Richmond, 1901. 

//. Biography and Criticism. 

Memoir prefixed to editions of 1899 and 1901 ; Sketch with edition 
of 1873 by P. H. Hayne; Henry Timrod, Laureate of the Confederacy, 
G. A. Wauchope, North Carolina Review, May 5, 1912; Dr. Frank 
Ticknor and Henry Timrod, S. A. Link, published by the Methodist 
Episcopal Church Society; in Holy Grail, six addresses, J. A. B. 
Scherer, 1905 ; introduction to selections in Library of Southern 
Literature. 

Timrod is one of the several American poets of genuine achievement 
who died before middle life, and, of these, one of the men who had pro- 
gressed the fastest and showed the largest relative promise. As a boy and 
growing man, it is clear in the record of his life, as well as in his verses, 
that he was an extravagant and self-indulgent sentimentalist. He went 
through all the emotional ebullitions of normal youth, but he went through 
them with abnormal intensity, and he was complacently self-conscious of 
what he was doing. He recorded with pride his susceptibility to spring, 
to roses, to babies and older children, to night, to the mocking-bird, and 
to a steady succession of inamoratas. Emotion was an end in itself. Few 
poets have ever so celebrated the praises of what Jane Austen called sensi- 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 657 

bility. In fact, this i8th century term gives the cue not only to Timrod's 
earlier career but to certain prevailing Southern traits. Whatever the 
origin of Southern speech and manners, they did — and still do in some 
measure — resemble those which we associate with the generations of Mrs. 
Radcliffe and Laurence Sterne. Both are marked by a somewhat elevated 
formality of phrasing — much of it conventionalized — an inclination to 
forensics, a vocal insistence upon honor and. chivalry, an opulent show of 
deference to beauty and to woman ; and both at times topple on the verge 
of that histrionic insincerity which follows hard on the heel of any 
traditionalized forms of speech. Such habits of thought and expression 
became what is called "second nature" to the youthful Timrod, and, 
although in the best of his mature writing he overcame them by summoning 
his self-conscious "first nature" to the fore, they reasserted themselves 
during his last illness, and have unhappily been printed and reprinted by 
the admiring recorders of his dying hours. 

Yet even in Timrod's earliest volume there is poem after poem to show 
that the white flame of real creative fervor could burn away the flimsy 
covering of decorative verbiage whenever he became more concerned with 
his subject than with self -analysis or self -display. To be sure, much of 
it is imitative of Tennyson at his feeblest; much is utterly commonplace. 
He makes the morning stars sing together, turns water into wine, and 
asserts that truth is beauty as gravely as though it had never been said 
before. But in the same poem that is beclogged with passionate lyres, 
bleeding patriots, and azure heights, he likens the poet's words to "bright 
cataracts that front a sunrise," and in such flashes preludes the dawn of 
his maturer powers. The whole sonnet, "I know not why, but all this 
weary day" (p. 348), points the fine distinction between sentiment and 
sentimentalism, and in its premonitory despair is as poignant as Rossetti's 
"Sea Limits," which it preceded-by several years: 

Now it has been a vessel losing way. 
Rounding a stormy headland; now a gray 
Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main; 
And then, a banner, drooping in the rain. 
And meadows beaten into bloody clay. 

With the outbreak of the war, the feminine strain in Timrod asserted 
itself in the heroic endurance and self-restraint that more propitious cir- 
cumstances might never have developed. All through it he was singularly 
free from the abusive rancour that always rises as a shrill obligato in the 
times that try men's souls. Of course, he felt deep conviction, but he 
expressed it in honest passion, and, except for rare and momentary out- 
bursts, never in hate. 

"Ethnogenesis," the birth of a nation, is naturally not a love poem 
addressed to the North, and the middle sections are unfriendly and un- 
charitable, a,s vulnerable in these respects as a great deal of Lowell's and 
Whittier's verse written in wartime. But the vital fact about this ode 
is a positive one, that with ardent faith it celebrates — especially in the 
analogy on the benevolent influence of the Gulf Stream — the aspirations 
of the Confederacy. "Carolina" starts with "despots" and ends with "Huns" 
— how limited and outworn is the language of national abuse ! — but it is 



658 AMERICAN POETRY 

a real and stirring call to arms, as generous as such appeals may be. 
"Charleston" is utterly unsullied by any emotion lower than fine and 
solemn resolution. "Christmas" is a lovely song of hope for peace. Con- 
sidered thus, bit by bit, and more strikingly still, when considered in the 
light of 20th century war poetry, what Timrod wrote in the heat of the con- 
flict is remarkably magnanimous. If he had never shown anger in a single 
line the total effect would have been rather flabby, as the utterance of a 
man who did not lose his temper because he had none to control ; but 
Timrod blazed out just often enough to prove that he was genuinely 
large-hearted in his self-restraint. 

The inevitable fact is that the immediate effect of war upon the arts 
is a blighting one. It is the one conclusion to be drawn from the works 
of any poet who has also written in times of peace, and it is a conclusion 
to be derived even from Timrod's best known poem. The theme of the 
poem is a noble one, and has been frequently attempted. It is that the 
work of the farmer is the strengthening of the sinews of the world. Tim- 
rod felt this as Lanier was to see it a little later, and as Bryant had already 
done ; and with a cotton boll in his hand he found in it a spell that unfolded 
before him a vista as broad as the world — a world in which he visioned 
an idealized commerce that "only bounds its blessings by mankind." But 
now in this fine mood of optimism the grim fact of war intruded on his 
calm as he weaved his woof of song, and in a moment, in spite of every 
effort to keep himself in hand, he was berating the "Goth" even while 
resolving to be merciful to him. The poet who always keeps his balance 
in wartimes must be either superhuman or subhuman. Personal hardship 
Timrod endured without flinching. In the face of the ghastly devastation 
wrought by Sherman's army, the scars of which are still to be seen, he 
had no word except one of hope for the reconstruction which he did not 
live to behold: 

A time of peaceful prayer, 

Of law, love, labor, honest loss and gain — 

These are the visions of the coming reign 
Now floating to them on this wintry air. 

Timrod, Lanier and Poe each lived less than forty years, and Timrod 
slightly less than either of the others. Of the three, all ill-fated, his lot 
was perhaps the hardest and his development was less complete; but in 
his poetry he came to closer grips with life than they. The worlds of the 
other two were more subjective, and their interest in art was vastly more 
involved in problems of technique; so much so, that the reader often for- 
gets what they are saying in his attention to the way in which they are 
expressing it. But Timrod, who in his youth was lamentably imitative and 
self-conscious, was redeemed as an artist in the ordeal by battle, and in 
his later work spoke simply and truly as one who was talking in his 
native idiom. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 659 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE (1830-1886) 

Hayne was born in Charleston, South Carolina, on New Year's Day, 
1830. He was a student in Charleston College, and grew up under the 
influence of his distinguished uncle, Robert Y. Hayne, remembered as the 
objective of Webster's "Reply," and as Senator for and Governor of his 
State. Before the opening of the Civil War, he published volumes of 
poems in 1855, 1857, and 1859, and in 1857 he became editor of the choice 
but short-lived Russell's Magazine. He was not strong enough for actual 
field service in the war, but was for a while a member of the Governor's 
staff. After the destruction of his home and library, he removed with his 
wife to "Copse Hill," Georgia, where he lived in rather splendid poverty 
till the end of his life. His writing brought him in a bare subsistence, 
but he would not submit to any other form of money-getting. He wrote 
abundantly for the periodicals, and brought out the following volumes: 
"Legends and Lyrics," 1872; edition of Timrod's poems, with introduc- 
tion, 1873; "The Mountain of the Lovers and Other Poems," 1875; lives 
of Robert Y. Hayne and Hugh S. Legare, 1878, and Complete Poems, 1882. 

I. Texts. 

Complete Edition (his own selection), 1882, with biographical 
sketch by Margaret Preston. 

//. Biographical and Criticism. 

There is no adequate biography of Hayne. The introduction to 
the selections in the Library of Southern Literature is well supple- 
mented by his own reminiscences in the same volume reprinted from 
The Southern Bivouac. See also Paul Hamilton Hayne, S. A. Link, 
Pub. M. E. Ch. Soc, and the passages in the survey histories. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne was a long way from being a great poet or a 
great man; yet in a secondary way he is significant as a real repre- 
sentative of a period and a locality. A man cannot be egregious without 
having a grex — or flock — from which to emerge, and in the Charleston of 
of Hayne's day there was a genuine literary flock. The chief of the clan 
was William Gilmore Simms, the most picturesque and vigorous of them 
all, as well as longest lived and the most prolific — a South Carolina com- 
bination of Dr. Johnson and Anthony Trollope, with a dash of G. P. R. 
James thrown in. Around him and John Russell, the bookseller, there 
rallied a group who- were to Charleston what the frequenters of the Old 
Corner Book Store were to Boston, or the daily visitors to Putnam's offices 
were to New York. 

We have Hayne's own description of the old city and the bookish 
people in it in a series of articles to the Southern Bivouac in the autumn 
of 1885, just before his death. 

In a city which cared more for the art of living than for getting and 
spending, John Russell — a man of sufficient presence to have once been 
mistaken on a channel steamer for the English Prime Minister — made 



660 AMERICAN POETRY 

his bookshop a social centre long before the social centre had been capi- 
talized and turned into an institution. "Everybody" came to the store 
during business hours, and later in the day, in the back room, the men 
came together in the spirit of a literary club, though without organization 
or name. Russell's Magazine was just as natural a consequence of these 
meetings and the talk that took place in them, as was The Atlantic of 
similar rneetings in Boston at exactly the same time, or as had been The 
Dial sixteen years earlier. With its founding, young Hayne was made 
editor. 

It was in work of this literary journalism that Hayne's talents should 
have been allowed to exercise themselves. He was a man certainly of 
no greater calibre than Aldrich and Howells and Gilder and Stoddard — -all 
men of nice discrimination, poetic gifts and the consequent critical powers 
that are more often needed than secured in editorial offices. The reason 
that they all carried their editorships with such distinction was that each 
of them was in a way just a little too good for that sort of drudgery. 
Yet they were not much too good, for the highest creative abilities simply 
will not be chained to a desk. Furthermore, each of these other men con- 
tinued to write, as well as to market other people's writings, and each of 
them grew steadily in power. But a career like theirs was denied to 
Hayne by the fact that Charleston was in the path of the war. Russell's 
was discontinued in i860 never to be revived, and Hayne was forced into 
the most precarious of existences — that of writing for a living. The 
result was unfortunate not only to his purse but to his productive powers 
as well. He had to force himself, and he wrote, in consequence, the sort 
of poetry that must be the result of industry and good-will. 

Much of it was in the form of occasional poetry, with the result that 
the public fell into the habit of looking to him for the ready delivery of 
a few appropriate verses on demand, and that, worse still, he came to 
regard all sorts of events as necessary subject-matter for poetical treat- 
ment. Thus he wrote for ceremonies all the way from the Carolina Art 
Association Anniversary in 1856 to the International Cotton Exposition 
twenty-five years later. He got into the way of doing the conventional 
19th century thing, regardless of any connection with his own experience 
or even observation: dramatic sketches located in Westmoreland, Savoy, 
Candia; legends of Greece, Sicily, Brittany, India, Australia, "The Coast 
of Astolf ," Paradise, which were all equally legendary to him ; and always, 
betweentimes, sonnets and yet more sonnets. Had Russell's survived, or 
could some other magazine have demanded him after the war, the blue 
pencil would have usurped most of his time, and might have made him 
more self-critical when he took up the pen. 

The work of Hayne's that counts for most is contained in the poems 
which touched the universal through the simple and unpretentious treat- 
ment of native themes. Some of his war lyrics are effective, though not 
up to the best of Timrod's. Some of his post-bellum protests are as 
vigorous as need be, but far less vitriolic than they might have been. 
"South Carolina to the States of the North" and "The Stricken South 
to the North" suggest of the Reconstruction Period what Tourgee's novel, 
"A Fool's Errand," presents in detail, and with an equal combination 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 661 

of candor and charity. And Hayne's poems of nature ring finely true. 
Of these, the most impressive are, of course, not the ones in which he 
protests his passion in abstract terms, but those in which he reveals his 
"intimate knowledge and delight." Most of all, the southern pine fascinates 
him by its perennial grace and strength and its mysterious voices. A pine 
tree anthology could be culled from his verses. He was at his best when 
he turned to "something in the pastoral line." 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, descended on his mother's side from 
Priscilla Alden, was born in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. He was 
the second of eight children. His mother read Cowper, Hannah More and 
"Ossian" to the family; these, with the "Sketchbook," formed the poet's 
literary taste. His first verses appeared in the Portland Gazette in 1820. 
The home library contained Milton, Pope, Dryden, Moore, and "Don 
Quixote" ; Gray and Chatterton he discovered in college, and he thus early 
acquired that mild romanticism which never left him. 

In 1822 Longfellow matriculated as a sophomore at Bowdoin College, 
where Hawthorne was a classmate. His college career was marked by 
exemplary conduct, a few melancholy poems (a "Dirge Over a Nameless 
Grave" is an early production ! ) , and a seven-minute commencement 
address on "Our Native Writers." In spite of parental opposition, he early 
determined on a literary career; upon his graduation in 1825 the trustees 
of the college, impressed, it is said, by a translation of Horace, and desirous 
of emulating Harvard, offered the professorship of modern languages to 
Longfellow. As European preparation was made a condition of the offer, 
the young professor sailed for France in 1826. Upon this journey he 
mastered the Romance languages and acquired material for several prose 
sketches, culminating in "Outre-Mer" (1835), a frank imitation of Irving. 

Upon his return in 1829 he began teaching. In those Arcadian days, 
Longfellow had to prepare his own textbooks and serve, besides, as the 
college librarian. His modest salary ($900) enabled him to marry, how- 
ever, in 1 83 1, the bride being Mary Story Potter. He had time, too, to 
publish his sonorous translation of the Coplas of Jorge Manrique (1833) 
— it was the time of our interest in things Spanish — a book which secured 
for him Ticknor's approbation and the appointment to Harvard as his 
successor. Again a European journey prefaced the poet's college work; 
the Longfellows sailed for England in 1835, visiting northern Europe so 
that the poet could familiarize himself with the Teutonic languages. On 
this trip he fell under the spell of German romanticism, especially of 
Richter, and on this journey Mrs. Longfellow died (1835). 

Longfellow began teaching at Harvard the following year, holding the 
chair, despite growing distaste for his occupation, until 1854. In 1839 
he, published "Hyperion," a romance of the Werther school, and once a 
guidebook for Americans in Germany. "Voices of the Night," his first 
important book of verse, containing "A Psalm of Life," "The Reaper and 



662 AMERICAN POETRY 

the Flowers," and other popular favorites, appeared that same year. The 
"Ballads" — "The Skeleton in Armor," "The Wreck of the Hesperus" and 
others — were printed two years later. After his third voyage to Europe, 
on which he met Freiligrath, a life-long friend, he brought out seven 
"Poems on Slavery," an extremely mild contribution to polemics. "The 
Spanish Student," a play in verse, appeared in 1842. 
On this last journey Longfellow wrote: 

Half of my life is gone, and I have let 
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled 
The aspiration of my youth, to build 
Some tower of song with lofty parapet . . . 
. . . sorrow, and a care that almost killed, 
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet. 

He was searching at once for peace and for something more substantial 
than swallow-flights of didactic song. Domestic happiness, which he most 
needed, came in 1843, with his marriage to Fanny Appleton, who helped 
him with his next work, an anthology, "Poets and Poetry of Europe" 
(1845). He wrote in December of that year: "Peace to the embers of 
burnt-out things ; fears, anxieties, doubts, all are gone." "The Belfry of 
Bruges and Other Poems" (1846) marks the transition to his middle period. 

Longfellow's best work was done from 1845 to 1861. In this epoch 
he began to write narrative verse, and his three great American poems 
appeared, "Evangeline" in 1847, "The Song of Hiawatha" in 1855, and 
"The Courtship of Miles Standish" in 1858. "The Seaside and the Fire- 
side," containing "The Building of the Ship" (almost the only reflection 
in his verse of the troubles of the republic) and his finest sea-lyrics, ap- 
peared in 1849. Iri that same year he took up. "the sublimer Song whose 
broken melodies have for so many years breathed through my soul . . ." 
whose message should furnish some equivalent expression "for the trouble 
and wrath of life, for its sorrow and mystery." This was the conception of 
his trilogy, "Christus : A Mystery," which dominated his literary life. The 
second part, and by far the best, "The Golden Legend," was published in 
1851. He began in i860 the series of narrative poems which were pub- 
lished as "Tales of the Wayside Inn" (1863). 

The great break in the poet's life came in 1861 with the tragic death 
of his wife. For a time he kept up desultory production, but his great 
work was the translation of Dante (1867-70). His last years were, like 
Browning's, a period of steady literary production, increasing fame, hosts 
of friends, and no great change in poetic achievement. "The Bells of 
San Bias" is to Longfellow what the "Epilogue to Asolando" is to Brown- 
ing. He completed his trilogy with "The New England Tragedies" (1868) 
and the "Divine Tragedy" (1871). The second part of the Wayside Inn 
appeared in 1872 (in "Three Books of Song"), the third in 1873 (in 
"Aftermath"). "The Hanging of the Crane" was written in 1874, the year 
of "Morituri Salutamus." His last volume bore the pathetic title, "Ultima 
Thule" (1880). He died March 24, 1882. 

A posthumous collection of lyrics, "In the Harbor," was brought out 
in 1882, and the following year saw the publication of "Michael Angelo, 
A Fragment," the moving utterance of the poet's serene old age. Those 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 663 

who Ipelieve that Longfellow had no thought on art or life except a shallow 
optimism cannot do better than study the relevant parts of "Christus" and 
"Michael Angelo." There is pathos in the picture of Howells's "White 
Mr. Longfellow" toiling in his old age over "Michael Angelo," which 
concludes : 

I am so old that Death 
Oft plucks me by the cloak to come with him; 
And some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down. 
And my last spark of life will be extinguished. 
Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair 
So near to death, and yet so far from God. 

/. Texts. 

Complete Works, Riverside Edition, 1 1 vols. ; Standard Library- 
Edition, with the life, 14 vols.; Cambridge Edition of the poems, i vol. 

//. Biography. 

Life, Samuel Longfellow, 3 vols. ; Life, T. W. Higginson (American 
Men of Letters); Life, G. R. Carpenter (Beacon Biographies). See 
also My Literary Friends and Acquaintances, W. D. Howells. 

///. Criticism. 

Interpretations of Literature, Lafcadio Hearn; Views and Re- 
views, W. E. Henley ; My Literary Passions, W. D. Howells ; Park 
Street Papers, Bliss Perry; successive criticisms by E. A. Poe, in 
Works, Virginia Edition, Vol. X, pp. 39, 40; 71-80; Vol. XL pp. 64-85; 
Vol. XH, pp. 41-106; Vol. XHL pp. 54-73; American Literature, C. F. 
Richardson, Vol. H, ch. iii ; Longfellow and Other Essays, W. P. Trent; 
Specimen Days — The Death of Longfellow — Walt Whitman. 

In the roll of American poetry Longfellow's work undoubtedly bulks 
the largest. Nevertheless, critics nowadays, comparing him with Poe, or 
Emerson, or Whitman, decry his didacticism, the sentimentality and pretti- 
ness of his verse, forgetting that poets as original as Poe, as independent 
as Whitman, or with the intellectual drive of Emerson were as exceptional 
in their time as they would be now. Whether or not such criticism is just, 
we shall not understand Longfellow's position in American letters until 
we reconstruct the literary taste of his time and discover how good is 
even his mediocre work, compared with the popular authors of his day. 
An excellent approach is the list of books in Mary Potter's library, cited 
by Higginson, which typically represents what cultured women were read- 
ing in New England in 1831. 

There were first Maria Edgeworth's "Harry and Lucy" ; then "Sabbath 
Recreations," by Miss Emily Taylor ; then the "Wreath," a gift-book con- 
taining "a selection of elegant poems from the best authors," including 
Beattie's "Minstrel," Blair's "Grave," Gray's "Elegy," Goldsmith's "Trav- 
eller," selections from Campbell, Moore, and Burns, and a few American 
pieces, among them Bryant's "Death of the Flowers." As the biographer 
dryly remarks, "the sombre muse undoubtedly predominated." There 
were also Miss Bowdler's "Poems and Essays" (a reprint of the eighteenth 
edition!), and Mrs. Barbauld's "Legacy for Young Ladies," "discussing 



664 AMERICAN POETRY 

beauty, fashion, botany, the uses of history, and especially including a 
somewhat elaborate essay on female studies"; Worcester's "Elements of 
History," and "The Literary Gem," another anthology. Bryant and Dana 
were the popular poets (Longfellow himself asknowledged Bryant as" his 
master), and "parents regarded all more flowing measures as having a 
slight flavor of the French Revolution." 

Later, in the forties, the graveyard school, imported or native, waned 
before a period of literary "elegance," washed-out Byronism, of the 
"literati," and of "female writers" who invariably "adorned the literature 
of their country." Of seventy and more American writers sufficiently 
popular to be; discussed by Poe in the "Literati," less than ten are now 
remembered. Writing in 1845, in reply to British criticism, George P. 
Putnam found among those who had contributed "much to elegant litera- 
ture" that would "not soon be lost in the waters of Lethe" such mediocrities 
as Miss Gould, Miss Brooks, Mrs. Ellet, "Lucretia," Margaret Davidson, 
Mrs. Sigourney, and Miss Sedgwick. Following "Lallah Rookh" and 
Byron's eastern tales, the tinsel brilliance of Willis's paraphrases of the 
Scriptures became immensely popular; Orientalism became the fashion, 
even in the "Dial," Maria Brooks (Southey's Maria del Occidente, "the 
most impassioned and imaginative of all poetesses") published "Zophiel, 
or the Bride of Seven," and as late as 1854 Bayard Taylor was bringing 
out the "Poems of the Orient." Whoever is inclined to deal harshly with 
Longfellow should be compelled to read through a volume of "Godey's 
Lady's Book," or "Graham's Magazine," the latter "embracing every depart- 
ment of literature, embellished with engravings, fashion and music, ar- 
ranged for the pianoforte, harp and guitar." "The pages of the early 
magazines," says McMaster, "abound ... in sentimental stories, maudlin 
poetry, puzzles, and advice as to the proper way to cook a dinner or make 
a dress." The adjective applied to the poetry is not too strong.^ 

Nor must we forget, in criticising Longfellow's didacticism, that, as 
Carpenter says, "At no time in the history of the country was there a 
more genuine and widespread interest in matters of the spirit, and nowhere 
was this interest stronger than in New England. The old Calvinism was 
crumbling away. . . . People felt, rather than knew, that the old religious 
systems were essentially false, that man was not powerless in the hands 
of a foreordaining fate, that life was not merely to be endured, that 
nature was not a mere ornament of man's tomb, and the world but the 
scene of his disgrace. They were thankful to the theologians and philoso- 
phers who could help them understand why they felt thus, but most 
grateful to a poet who could cast their new feelings into song. . . ." 
Longfellow must be read not only with Miss Edgeworth's moral tales but 
also with Channing and Theodore Parker. 

Such was the period of Longfellow's early popularity. To an age 
steeped in didacticism he offered "The Psalm of Life" — didactic, it is true, 
but in ringing verses the like of which had not appeared. For an age 
groping for faith in place of doctrine, he wrote "The Reaper and the 

^ For an excellent discussion of the east in the forties read John Bach McMaster, 
"History of the People of the United States," vol. vii, chap. Ixxiii, from which some of 
this material is drawn. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 665 

Flowers" and "Resignation." More than that, he redirected the romantic 
temper of his time. Taking up the work of Bryant and Ticknor he sup- 
planted the crudities of impossible eastern tales with his own discoveries, 
and while Margaret Fuller was vainly praising Goethe in the "Dial," 
Longfellow, more practically, was translating German ballads for a de- 
lighted public. In his original work, in "Hyperion" in prose, in volumes 
like "The Belfry of Bruges," in short narrative poems such as "Gaspar 
Becerra," in his tales, and finally in "The Golden Legend," he opened 
new windows on Europe, offering, so to speak, personally conducted tours 
through the cathedrals, the art galleries, the history and romance of the 
Old World, and throwing over them a glamour and a beauty peculiarly 
his own. Only the testimony of his contemporaries can make us realize 
Longfellow's importance in this labor. 

More important for us is the fact that the poet was the explorer of a 
new field. By him poetry that is essentially American is given its largest 
impulse and the best of our narrative poetry is written. "Evangeline," 
"The Song of Hiawatha," and "The Courtship of Miles Standish" are 
native to the soil; they are American pioneers in theme, in metres, and 
in the fact that they are long narrative pieces. Even adverse critics admit 
that, given a story, nobody in our poetic hierarchy can tell it better than 
Longfellow. He is the only American who stands with Chaucer and 
Morris in that difficult field. Nor must we forget that he is our first poet 
of the sea, and the first, not even excepting Poe, to exhibit a mastery 
over many difficult and varied metres. 

It is perhaps unfortunate for Longfellow's reputation that his great 
popular following has been gained by what is artistically his mediocre 
work. Those who read him as children — and who does not? — seldom 
discover that the author of "The Village Blacksmith" was also the author 
of the superb sonnets on the "Divine Comedy," the sonorous strength of 
"The Saga of King Olaf," and the haunting ballad of "Count Arnaldos," 
which Henley so enthusiastically praised. 

Yet we must admit that to otir taste there is sometimes a monotony 
about his verse, as of sweetness too long enjoyed. Modern readers find 
his didacticism weariful, not because it teaches a lesson, but because 
much of it is unnecessary explanation. His continual search for metaphors 
often results in mere prettiness and now and then in positive bad taste. 
He is, moreover, unable to penetrate the deeper passions that make the 
puzzles of life — only another way of saying that Longfellow is not Brown- 
ing. Yet we must be careful not to be afraid of a poet because he is 
popular: there is a vast difference between the ability to please the vulgar 
and "that exquisite gift possessed by a few men of essential distinction — 
like Gray, like Goethe, like Longfellow — of giving perfect expression to 
certain feelings which are 'in widest commonalty spread.' " Bliss Perry, 
from whom this is taken, has said, perhaps, the wisest words ever spoken 
of this poet : 

"No doubt the most masterful poets have certain qualities which we 
do not find in Longfellow. But this is no reason for failing to recognize 
the qualities which he did command in well-nigh flawless perfection. There 
are candid readers, unquestionably, who feel they have outgrown him. 



666 AMERICAN POETRY 

But, for one, 1 can never hear such a confession without a sort of pain. 
... It is glory enough for Longfellow that he is read by the same persons 
who still read Robert Burns, and the plays of Shakespeare, and the 
English Bible." 

J- 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894) 

Holmes was born in Cambridge in 1809, coming from distinguished 
ancestry, which was interwoven with that of the Bradstreet, Phillips, 
Hancock, Quincy and Wendell families. His father, Abiel Holmes, was 
a historian and a Congregational clergyman. Holmes was prepared for 
college at Phillips Academy, Andover, and was a graduate of Harvard 
in the class of 1829. As literature, to which he was inclined, did not offer 
him a livelihood, and law proved unattractive, he undertook the study of 
medicine, gaining most of his preparation abroad from 1833 to 1835. A 
year of teaching at Dartmouth, and practice in Boston, during which he 
did some important research work, were followed by his appointment in 
1847 to a professorship of anatomy and physiology at Harvard, a post 
which he held actively until 1882 and as Professor Emeritus until his 
death in 1894. 

He began early to write verse. His first volume of poems appeared 
in 1833, and the second in 1836, the year in which he took his professional 
degree. The rivalry between literature and medicine was again recorded 
by the publication of the third volume in 1846 just before his appointment 
at Harvard. From the establishment of The Atlantic Monthly in 1857 
and the launching therein of the "Breakfast Table Series," his reputation 
as a scientist was overshadowed by his name as poet, essayist and novelist. 
The complete edition of his works includes, besides the three volumes of 
poetry, the four above-mentioned, "Pages from an Old Volume of Life" 
and "My Hundred Days in Europe," his three novels, "Elsie Venner," 
"A Mortal Antipathy," and "The Guardian Angel," and his lives of 
Motley and Emerson. Editions of his poems appeared during his lifetime 
in 1833, 1836, 1846, 1861, 1865, 1874, 1875, 1880, 1888, most of his verses 
after 1857 appearing first in The Atlantic. 

I. Texts. 

The best editions of his poetry are in the volumes included in the 
Riverside, Autocrat, or Standard Library Editions, or the one-volume 
Cambridge Edition. 

//. Biography. 

The standard biography is The Life and Letters of Oliver Wendell 
Holmes, by John T. Morse, Jr., 2 vols. Other familiar studies are 
included in The Autocrat and His Fellow Boarders, by S. M. Crothers ; 
Authors and Friends, by Mrs. Annie Fields ; Old Cambridge, by T. W. 
Higginson; My Literary Friends and Acquaintances, by W. D. Howells; 
My Own Story, by J. 'T. Trowbridge. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS , 667 

///. Criticism. 

The best critical discussions include the appropriate passages or 
chapters in the following: The Poetry and Poets of America, by 
Churton Collins ; Certain Accepted Heroes, and Other Essays, by H. C. 
Lodge; The Rhythm of Life, and Other Essays, by Alice Meynell; 
Poets of America, by E. C. Stedman; Studies of a Biographer, by 
Leslie Stephen; Prose Works of John G. Whittier, Vols. II and III. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes was preeminently loyal to his friends and to 
his neighborhood. In the best sense of the word he was extremely provin- 
cial. He was the proud offspring of distinguished New England ancestry. 
He believed in the value of the intellectual aristocracy to which he be- 
longed.^ He consciously enjoyed his upbringing with Wendell Phillips and 
John Lothrop Motley, and his older-brother relationship to the Dana boys 
and Thomas Higginson and James Lowell. As a student and teacher and 
alumnus of Harvard College, he delighted to celebrate her traditions and 
her already venerable age. When the reform wave between 1835 and 1850 
swept many of his friends off their feet, he kept his quite firmly on the 
wholesome and stable New England ground. In 1857 he was more visibly 
interested in the establishment of a new literary monthly than in the over- 
throw of slavery. His 'Autocrat" and his "Poet at the Breakfast Table," 
in 1857 and 1859, were pictures of a serene and complacent little city — 
not the complete Boston of those years, but those aspects or moods of 
Boston which proved attractive to the man of intellect rather than to the 
man of feeling. As a leading member of the Saturday Club, he was the 
central figure in a group of distinguished gentlemen who represented 
breeding and culture.' They were gentlemen who shared in the great 
events of their day with fine courage and heroism, but they came to- 
gether, as their reminiscences unconsciously show, not so much to enter 
into earnest discussion of the problems, of their day or of eternity as to 
indulge in sparkling colloquy to which Holmes was the chief contributor 
and Lowell an able second. Emerson did not altogether enjoy the meet- 
ings because, in spite of himself, he was so often reduced to the loud 
laughter which in his opinion, as in Goldsmith's, was no true index of 
the richly furnished mind. 

In this intellectual world it should be understood that Holmes was 
distinctly a liberal. He did not subscribe to the old theology of Anne 
Bradstreet and of Jonathan Edwards and of his own father. From youth 
up "Wendell" inclined naturally to the Unitarian liberalism of the new 
Harvard rather than to the orthodox straitness of Andover and Yale. 
Again, in his choice of a profession, he was quite independent. By the 
natural bent of his mind and by social tradition he was delegated to one 
of the learned professions; but he rejected theology and law for medicine, 
which, when he entered it, was by no means so eligible a pursuit for a 
young gentleman of parts as preaching or teaching or practising at the bar. 

Furthermore, it should be understood that though Holmes was not 
an ardent reformer he was by no means a cold incarnation of intellect. 
Nothing could be farther from the truth than this. Although he did not 

^ See "Elsie Venner," chap. I. "The Brahmin Caste." 



668 AMERICAN POETRY 

share tlie deeper enthusiasms of Emerson, or even fully understand them, 
he had much more of the milk of human kindness in him. He was a genial 
and affectionate comrade, and a man of an overflowing loyalty which 
ranged all the way from college spirit and local pride to reverence and 
patriotism. Above all, he possessed the amiable qualities which belong to 
the genial, as contrasted with the caustic, humorist. 

Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear 
The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here? 
Not while I wander through the land of dreams, 
To strive with great and play with trifling themes. 
Let some kind meaning fill the varied line. 

Ten years before he wrote this (in the introduction to Urania, a Rhymed 
Lesson, 1846) Holmes, according to his own commentary, was "a young 
person trained after the schools of classical English verse as represented 
by Pope, Goldsmith, and Campbell, with whose lines his memory was 
early stocked." 

To a striking degree, his mind, as well as his memory was filled and 
shaped by these earlier models. The great group of early romanticists 
left Holmes, for the most part, unaffected. In spirit as well as in form 
Holmes harked back to their predecessors. He wrote jocoseria like "The 
Oysterman" and "The Music Grinders" and "The Comet," just as Cowper 
and Goldsmith and Gay had done. He wrote occasional poems, and very 
charming and touching ones, as the i8th century did from Pope to Sheridan. 
He wrote lyrics with a pleasant touch of sentiment in them or a not too 
compelling moral application. He wrote on the Progress of Poetry like 
Gray, and in "Lord of all being throned afar" he wrote one great hymn 
as fine as Addison's single outstanding hymn, "The spacious firmament 
on high." 

Although he abjured the "rankling spear," he was at his best in kindly 
satire. He was a keen and sane and genial observer, with a sober feeling for 
his obligation to put "the staff of truth to the old lying incubus, no matter 
whether he [did] it with a serious face or a laughing one." So he turned, 
not as a rule to the deepest aspects of life but rather to the upsetting of 
popular fallacies, and with telling effect. "My Aunt" may have been a 
source of quiet anguish to certain maiden ladies whom it too truly de- 
scribed, but as a satire it was directed not so much at them as at the 
"finishing school" system of which they had been the innocent victims. 
The chapter in "Elsie Venner" on "The Apollinean Female Institute" is a 
fair sermon on the text furnished by "My Aunt." In the same sense, 
"Latter Day Warnings" was directed at the state of mind in which Sev- 
enth Day Adventism could flourish, rather than at "Miller's Saints." "We 
may fairly expect the millennium." said Holmes, "when in our daily life we 
have approached somewhat closer to the kingdom of heaven than in this 
modern round of petty dishonesties." 

But when you see that blessed day. 
Then order your ascension robe! 

Thus, too, "Contentment" was a two-edged satire, addressed not only at 
the luxury-loving self who makes his confession, but at the applause of 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 669 

the simple life by those who had no real desire for it. A little while before, 
Thoreau's "Walden" had appeared. He and the rest of the Concord group 
were all for "plain living and high thinking." "It is a very pretty concept 
of life," said Holmes, ". . . for those who like it. Little / ask, my wants 
are few." And then he went on to show with what beautiful simplicity 
he could rub along on an income of not more than twelve or fifteen 
thousand a year. 

The best and most famous example of all the satires is "The Deacon's 
Masterpiece or, The Wonderful 'One-Hoss Shay,' a Logical Story." Holmes 
had been brought up under the austerities of Calvinistic theology. It was 
a creed derived not from the consciousness of God as he was daily revealed 
in nature and mankind^ but from the interpretations put upon the Scriptures 
by a grim sect of theologians. They assumed that through the sin of 
Adam — one recalls no mention of Eve — all mankind had incurred the 
eternal wrath of God; that the intervention of the Mediator had earned 
for certain of the Elect an immunity from future punishment; but that 
these happy few had been elected, not on account of any desert of their 
own, for they deserved nothing, but by the arbitrary exercise of God's will. 
Starting from these assumptions, the Calvinistic preachers of New England 
composed sermons in such a logical way that there was no escape from 
their awful conclusions. So it happened that with the revolt of the 19th 
century the creed broke down, though it couldn't wear out. This gives the 
whole point to the emphasis upon logic, the truth, the parson, the sermon, 
and the collapse in front of the "meet'n'-house." 

Given Holmes's humor and the humorist's inclination to deal effectively 
with some typical aspect of human life, the predominant quality of Holmes's 
verse is the ready play of his fancy in the application of some sentiment 
or the exposition of some truth. He frequently had the happy inspiration 
of seeing at a flash how he could convey a certain idea, but he almost never 
conveyed it by brief suggestion. His mind was like the riot of an old- 
fashioned garden : to illustrate a fact about a pistil or a stamen he would 
fetch in a lavish armful. This was the method of his conversation, of 
which his Breakfast Table Series were the nearest reproduction, and his 
poems only somewhat compressed and polished versions. The three last 
mentioned satires are complete illustrations of this method. Each contains 
a catalogue of whimsically assembled items with appropriate comment. 
Thus, in his "Farewell to Agassiz," before the naturalist left for South 
America, he mentioned that the mountains were awaiting his approval, as 
were also five other natural objects. Holmes wished him safety from the 
tropical sun and twenty-two other dangers, and that he might succeed in 
finding fossils and seven other things of interest. "Bill and Joe" contains 
sixty lines built up by the enumerative method on the truth that worldly 
distinctions disappear for a moment in the light of old friendships. Of 
another sort is the fertile elaboration of a quaint fancy. "What would I 
be if one of my eight great, great grandmothers had married another 
man?" (32 lines) ; or "It is the Salem witches who furnish the power 
for the trolley cars" (146 lines). 

Such displays of inventive fancy are fair representatives of the man 
Holmes; but the poems which stand out as works of art are the briefer 



670 AMERICAN POETRY 

lyrics. The satires belong, like all their kind, in a prose setting; several 
of the best actually appeared in "The Autocrat." But "Old Ironsides" and 
"The Last Leaf," "The Chambered Nautilus" and "The Sun-Day Hymn" — 
these upwellings of the heart are the element in Holmes's poetry that will 
live the longest. 



SIDNEY LANIER (i 842-1881) 

Sidney Lanier, of Huguenot and Scotch-Irish descent, was born in 1842 
at Macon, Georgia. As a boy he grew up in the traditions of the "Old 
South," especially exhibiting a passion for music and becoming an accom- 
plished flautist. He entered Oglethorpe University as a sophomore at 
fourteen, graduating in i860 at the head of his class. In 1861 he enlisted 
in the first Georgia organization to leave for the war front. By the time 
of his release from the five months of prison life which ended his war 
experience in 1865, his health was permanently impaired. 

From 1868 to 1872 he "clerked," taught a country academy, and eventu- 
ally practised law with his father. In late 1872, after an alarming decline, 
he gave tip the law and went to Texas for his health. In the next year he 
became first flautist for the Peabody Orchestra in Baltimore, and it was 
between this time and his death in 1881 that he wrote all of his best poetry. 
For the support of himself and his family, he supplemented his earnings 
from music by literary hack-work and by lecturing for schools and colleges. 
In 1879, after two years' effort by President Gilman to secure him the 
appointment, he was made Lecturer on English in Johns Hopkins Univer- 
sity, a position he held to his death. 

In the winter of 1880-1881 he was able to give only twelve lectures at 
the university; in forlorn hope the Laniers removed to Asheville, N. C, 
where the stricken man labored heroically at miscellaneous writing. Later 
he went to Lynn in the Carolinas, where, in dire illness, he wrote "Sunrise" 
just before his death, September 7, 1881. 

/. Texts. 

Poems, edited by his wife, with memorial by W. H. Ward; Select 
Poems, with introduction and notes, by Morgan Callaway, Jr. 

II. Biography. 

Life, Edwin Mims (American Men of Letters) ; Letters of Sidney 
Lanier, selections from his correspondence, 1866-1881, i vol.; Sidney 
Lanier, Reminiscences and Letters, D. C. Gilman, South Atlantic 
Quarterly, April, 1905; Sidney Lanier, Recollections and Letters, 
M. H. Northrup, Lippincott's, March, 1905. 

///. Criticism. 

Questions at Issue, Edmund Gosse ; Contemporaries, T. W. Higgin- 
son; A Study of Lanier's Poems, C. W. Kent, Pub. Mod. Lang. Assoc, 
Vol. VII, pp. 33-63 ; The Literature of the South, M. J. Moses ; Views 
about Hamlet and Other Essays, A. H. Tolman; Southern Writers, 
W. P. Trent. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 671 

The profound influence of Lanier's early training upon his work has 
already been suggested. Lanier was bred, not in the shallower school of 
manners in which Poe got his gentlemanly bearing, but in the more search- 
ing traditions of the cultivated South. Here he got his high-mindedness, 
his Presbyterianism, and a certain apartness and chastity of mind. One 
thinks instinctively of Sir Galahad as Tennyson pictured him. His was 
a virgin heart in work and will, and if, unlike that hero, Lanier had the 
good sense not to announce: 

My strength Is as the strength of ten 
Because my heart is pure, 

his spirit was perpetually in the state pictured by the poet: 

I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here, 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams. 
Pure lilie.s of eternal peace 

Whose odors haunt my dreams. 

To this Presbyterian training he owed the courage with which he fought 
his fight — a courage that cannot be too often and too heartily admired. 
This he expressed in "The Stirrup Cup," a flawless piece which Herrick 
would have yearned to write, as "The Ballad of Trees and The Master" 
expresses his sense of the immanence of Christ. To his early training, as 
much as to his later reading, we owe, besides, the four boys' books. This 
spiritual chivalry is the source of his individuality and strength, but there 
is a tendency to forget that it is also a source of his weakness. 

For it is equally true that there comes with such purity as Lanier's a 
certain softness, a fastidiousness, a kind of unconscious and perfectly 
irreproachable intolerance. Lanier was the last man in the world to repeat 
the Pharisee's prayer, or to die of a rose in aromatic pain, but he could 
withdraw from the sweat of life completely. Chastity of spirit is some- 
times narrow. Hence, the white flame of Lanier's spirit burnt always in 
a prism; the hammer of his exaltation rose and fell monotonously on the 
same themes — music and art, soul and love, art and music, love and spirit. 
One longs at times for a human flaw in the crystal of such perfection. The 
reader tires of Lanier's continual excitement of spirit, misses in "The 
Symphony" the hearty humanness of "Abt Vogler," or of so humble a piece 
as "Caspar Becerra," and in the hush and incense of his love poetry pines 
for an honest country smack. 

There are two remarkable instances of this narrowness in Lanier's 
work. "The Crystal" is the best single example ; its criticisms of Homer, 
Socrates, Buddha, Dante and others, some of them just, have the fastidious 
air of a spiritual amateur, and the manner with which he forgives each 
in turn (Socrates for a "year worn cloak," Milton for the wars of "Para- 
dise Lost" and ^schylus that he never "learned to look where Love stands 
shining") is full of syrupy patronage; one is reminded of a very young 
clergyman. 

Lanier served throughout the war. He was young and certainly impres- 
sionable, and his military experience embraced the Seven Days, lonely 
work in the signal corps, and the foulness of a federal prison. Longfellow, 



672 AMERICAN POETRY 

who was not in the conflict, gave us "Killed at the Ford"; Lowell, with 
greater reason, wrung a cry out of the depths in "The Washers of the 
Shroud," and even Whittier, a Quaker, wrote the war's most quoted ballad, 
"Barbara Frietchie." Whitman, unlike these, toiled among the wounded; 
out of the sweat and agony came "The Wound Dresser," and such unfor- 
gettable pictures as "Cavalry Crossing a Ford," and a phrase that sums 
up the horror of the hospitals, blood "dripping horribly in the pail." When 
we turn to Lanier we get in "Tiger Lilies" a literary conceit which fan- 
tastically pictures North and South as two planters cultivating a flower, 
and in "The Psalm of the West" the prettified figure of a tournament 
between "Heart" and "Brain." "Heart" is "a youth in crimson and gold," 
"Brain" is "steel-armored, glittering, cold"; naturally, he runs Heart down, 
whereupon Heart somewhat fatuously remarks, "My love to my beloved" 
and expires. 

We must allow much for Lanier's bad health. This, like his tempera- 
ment, cut him off from human nature's daily food to brood on questions 
of art and music. Thus he wrote, quite wrongly, in "To Bayard 
Taylor," of 

The artist's pain — to walk his blood-stained ways, 

A special soul, yet judged as general — 
The endless grief of art, the sneer that slays. 

The war, the wound, the groan, the funeral pall. 

Emerson, or Poe, or Longfellow, does not talk that way about art. The 
famous and eminently false line with which he ended "The Symphony" 

Music is love in search of a word 

is not the utterance of a large and healthy spirit ; it is the reflection of an 
abnormally spiritual man. 

Finally, Lanier's verse has at times an unpleasant lusciousness, as in 
€uch lines as 

Looping low with languid arms the Vine. 

One should note the recurrence of certain words, like "sweet," which 
he applies to everything from poets and philosophers, who are "sweet 
righteous lovers large," to "sweet trees," the "firm sweet limbs of a girl," 
a»d — a final burst of sentimentality — "sweet sometime." We find, too, so 
unpleasantly physical an image as 

For every long-armed woman-vine 
That round a piteous tree doth twine, 

in his best work. 

Out of this brooding, then, on art and the workmanship of art spring 
Lanier's two great faults — his elaborate conceits (with these go his exces- 
sive personifications) and his lack of spontaneity. Instances of the first 
mar even his best work. The most curious example is an early poem, 
"Clover," inscribed to the memory of Keats, which is full of strained 
fancies. The poet lies down in a clover field and utters these far-fetched 
lines : 

Now, Cousin Clover, tell me in mine ear: 
Go'st thou to market with thy pink and green? 

Three Leaves, instruct me! I am sick of price. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 67^ 

Then he holds up two clover-stems to frame his face, the clover-field 
becomes the "Up-and-Down of Time," the clover-blossoms are the heads 
of his favorites in art — "Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo" (the list is 
reminiscent of the World's Best Books) — when presently 

Comes the Course-of-things shaped like an ox, 
Slow browsing, o'er my hillside, ponderously — 
That hath his grass, if earth be round or flat.. 

This cool, unasking ox 

Comes browsing o'er my hills and, vales of Time, 
^ And thrusts me out his tongue, and curls it, sharp. 
And twists them in all — Dante, Keats, Chopin, 
Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo .... 

and champs and chews. 
With slantly-churning jaws and swallows down. 

This is the very parody of poetry; it recalls Carew, and Fletcher's "The 
Purple Island." And in his better work we have 



for sunrise; 
and 



the star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee . . 
the great Sun-Bee 
That shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea 



Thus, if this Age but as a comma show 
Twixt weighter clauses of large-worded year 



Why snakes that crawl the earth should ply 
Rattles, that whoso hears may shun, ' 

While serpent lightenings in the sky. 
But rattle when the deed is done. 



all in the best style of Dr. Donne. Sometimes these conceits are pretty 
and ingenious, but they are not great poetry, or even good poetry, and 
Lanier's admirers who try to place him among the great American poets 
are merely doing him a grave injustice. 

It cannot be denied t^at much of his work lacks spontaneity. He 
had a new, and, as he thought, epoch-making idea of verse-technique, 
which led him to prefer great irregularities in line and stanza structure. 
But, unfortunately, Lanier's verse does not follow the only plan which such 
verse can properly follow; it does not conform to the contour of the 
thought, it is shaped according to a complex pattern of phrases, bars, and 
time-values which have their place in another art. A comparison with 
Lowell's odes points the difference : 

Who now shall sneer? 
Who dares again to say we trace 
Our lines to a plebeian race? 
Roundhead and Cavalier! 
Dumb are those names erstwhile in battle loud; 
Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud 
They flit across the ear, 

owes its shape to the laws of language as they express thought, but 

Gleams of the live-oaks, beautiful, braided and woven 
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 
Clamber the fork of the multiform boughs — 

Emerald twilights 

Virginal skylights 
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 



674 AMERICAN POETRY 

owes its shape to nothing but caprice and a mistaken attempt to do with 
language what belongs to music. With Lowell, form and thought were 
fused together; with Lanier, the entire process was conscious and sophis- 
ticated ; he tries to load every rift with ore until the lines swing across the 
brain without making any impression. Indeed, it is probable that many of 
those who read Lanier do so because they have a sense, as .Lowell said of 
Emerson, that something beautiful passed by; they do not have to consider 
what it was, and could not tell if they were asked. Great poets keep the 
faculties awake, they wrestle with the mind, as Lanier seldom does. 

Much of this discussion has been made pertinent by the fervor of the 
Lanier cult in recent years. Many of his faults he could not escape, 
even if he had been a more virile writer than he was ; they were inherent 
in the age. He had, first of all, to undergo the blunders and bad taste of 
the reconstruction period; the blunders he was big enough to forgive, 
but the bad taste, like his illness, drove him back for refuge to his art. It 
must not be forgotten that Lanier was a Southern gentleman, sensitive 
and proud, forced to live in "a carnival of misrule hitherto unapproached 
in American annals, though equalled in the same period in the metropolis 
of the country under Tweed" ; that in this era, murders, outrages and riots 
— in which Louisiana won an unenviable reputation— were common at 
Southern elections, and that Georgia, like every other State, sufifered the 
ignominy of the carpet-bag rule.^ In short, the South was undergoing all 
the shame and suffering pictured in Thomas Nelson Page's "Red Rock." 
An invalid of Lanier's sensitive nature naturally recoiled and took refuge 
in art. 

When at last he turned North, Lanier was met by conditions which 
an eminent historian has called "the nadir of national disgrace." Between 
1867 and 1881, when Lanier was engaged in creative work, there were in 
succession the Credit Mobilier fraud (1867-1868), which disgraced most 
prominent men, not sparing two successive vice-presidents of the United 
States; Black Friday (1869), reminiscent of Jay Gould and the malodorous 
"Jim" Fisk; the trials of Grant's- own secretary and of the Secretary of 
War (Belknap) for malfeasance in office; the removal of the Governor 
of Nebraska (1871) for embezzlement; sensational revelations of corrup- 
tion in the Senatorial elections in Kansas (1872) ; the discovery that the 
Ambassador to Great Britain was associated with a dubious mining scheme; 
the Salary Grab; the panic of 1873; the "Whiskey Ring" revelations of 
1874; widespread intimidation and bribery in the national elections of 
1877; a year of violence and bloodshed caused by the great railroad strike, 
and scandals many more. If Lanier turned in disgust from 

the vigorous tale 
Of bill for coin and box for bale, 

he did no more than Taylor, Aldrich, E. R. Sill, Simms, and Stoddard. One 
searches in vain in the poetry of Lanier's period for the earnestness and 
fire of Whittier or Lowell ; the nation was apparently flatulent, stertorous, 
corrupt, and contented ; and, as in all such periods, there was a tremendous 

^ As late as 1873 three-fourths of the legislature of South Carolina was black. 
^ Grant typified the age when he said, "There are two humbugs — one is Civil Service 
Reform; the other, the reformers." 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 675 

preoccupation with art and technique and very little interest in ideas and 
issues. We were living (as in Emerson's prime) in the trough between 
two great moral issues.^ 

If we turn from this consideration of Lanier's shortcomings to the 
noble pleasure of praising, we find that he has given us two forceful bal- 
lads, "The Revenge of Hamish" and "The Song of the Chattahoochee," 
and lyrics like "Life and Song," "The Stirrup Cup," "Evening Song," 
■'Marsh Song," and "The Ballad of Trees and The Master," which, though 
some of them are obviously bookish, are quaint, direct and melodious. 
"How Love Looked for Hell" is a piquant poem; it will have the same 
admiration that Donne has in English literature. Of the longer pieces, 
"The Symphony" has immortal stuff in it, though some parts of it, notably 
the "horn solo," are tainted with sentimentality. The "Psalm of the West" 
fails as a whole, but it contains the sonnets on Columbus which are mascu- 
line, like "Hamish" and better art. There remain the "Hymns of the 
Marshes" as Lanier's typical work. These are masterpieces; the music 
of parts of them is unparalleled in American song, and such a passage 
as the one beginning 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on- the watery sod. 
Behold, I will build me a nest on the greatness of God 

is better than Whittier; it has the toughness and spiritual resiliency of 
William Vaughn Moody. In these hymns all is melody, there is little 
painting or sculpture, and if the sense is often drowned in a flood of 
vowels, at its best the movement is bold, free and original. 

If we try to put all this together, we shall find that Lanier is not what 
has been claimed for him, one of the great American poets, but rather one 
of the most interesting of our minor writers. His genius, admirable as it 
was, was somewhat handicapped by his temperament and his time. He was 
further handicapped by a theory of technique which crippled his spon- 
taneity, and by manners which are idiosyncrasies and not style. Lanier 
was, in short, rather a lover of things beautiful than a creator; a brave 
soldier riding on the quests of a spiritual knighthood, but of a knighthood, 
like its earthly prototype, which left an inextensive structure behind it, 
quaint and courtly, but not great, and filled with the memory of the world 
as it never was. 

J. 

1 For studies in this period see Paul L. Haworth, "Reconstruction and the Union," 
1912; John W. Burgess, "Reconstruction and the Constitution," 1866-76, 1902; W. A. 
Dunning, "Reconstruction, Political and Economic," in The American Nation Series; Blaine, 
"Twenty Years in Congress," 1886, vol. ii; and Rhodes, "History of the United States," 
vols, vi and vii (1906), especially chaps, xxxix to xliii. 



676 AMERICAN POETRY 



WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892) 

Whitman was born in Huntington, Long Island, in 1819, the second 
of nine children. He went to public school in Brooklyn and received much 
of his educational discipline in print shops (1833-1837) and in a year or 
two of school teaching. From 1839, when he started and carried on a 
weekly paper in Huntington, until 1855, he worked as compositor at times 
and at times as newspaper writer. This was mainly in and around 
New York City, though from 1848 to 1850 he took a leisurely trip through 
the Middle States, down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans, 
and back by way of the Great Lakes and Canada. In 1855 appeared 
"Leaves of Grass," issued and in part actually put into type by Whitman. 
Subsequent editions under the same title, but each time with an added 
group of poems, appeared during his lifetime in 1856, i860, 1865, 1867, 
1872, 1876, 1881 (Boston), 1881 (Philadelphia), 1888, and 1891. 

Whitman went to the front in 1862, when his younger brother, George, 
was wounded, and continued in service as a hospital nurse until the end 
of the war. The strain of the work and the result of septic poisoning in 
1864 permanently depleted his health. His brief time of office as clerk 
in the Department of the Interior was ended by his discharge on the 
ground of being "the author of an indecent book." After suffering a 
paralytic stroke in 1873 he became an invalid for the rest of his life, 
living almost in poverty in Camden, New Jersey, until 1881, when the 
income from his writings became a material help. He died in 1892. 

/. Texts. 

The chief accessible editions of Whitman are : Leaves of Grass — 
Complete Poetical Works, i vol., and Complete Prose Works, i vol., 
Small, Maynard & Co. Selections from the Prose and Poetry of 
Whitman, edited by O. L. Triggs, 10 vols. Leaves of Grass, David 
McKay. 

No* other American poet has been the subject of so much spirited 
biographical and critical discussion. The more important studies 
include the following: 

//. Biography. 

Walt Whitman, R. M. Bucke; In Re Walt Whitman, edited by 
literary executors; Walt Whitman, G. R. Carpenter (English Men of 
Letters) ; Walt Whitman, Bliss Perry (American Men of Letters) ; 
Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person, John Burroughs; The 
Good Gray Poet, a Vindication, W. D. O'Connor ; With Walt Whitman 
in Camden, Horace Traubel. 

///. Criticism. 

Whitman, a Study, John Burroughs ; the appropriate chapters in 
Emerson and Other Essays, J. J. Chapman ; Studies in Literature, 
Edward Dowden; prefatory note to Poems of Walt Whitman, edited 
by W. M. Rossetti ; Interpretations of Poetry and Religion, George 
Santayana; Poets of America, E. C. Stedman; Familiar Studies of 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 677 

Men and Books, R. L. Stevenson; Studies in Prose and Poetry, A. C. 
Swinburne. 

A criticism of Walt Whitman's poetry may as well start with con- 
sideration of his verse form, largely because the discussion, like woman 
suffrage, is bound to come, and may better be disposed of soon in order 
to make way for more important problems. Some people, like Professor 
Barrett Wendell, with his comment about "hexameters trying to bubble 
through sewage," have tried unsuccessfully to dispose of his verse methods 
by the use of crushing epigram ; but the verse, not content with surviving, 
is exerting an immense influence on contemporary writers. Some critics, 
like Whitman himself, with his "I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs 
of the world," have tried with equal unsuccess to substitute a word of 
defiance for an honest discussion, but the discussion will not be waived. 

In so brief a statement as this, all that can be done is to mention, as 
easily subject to proof, a few of the leading facts. The first is that Whit- 
man deliberately adopted his own mode of writing after he had experi- 
mented successfully with the conventional forms, and that even in turning 
to his more individual method, he was not without predecessors or sympa- 
thetic contemporaries. Moreover, all along through his career he inter- 
spersed passages or whole poems which were as decorously symmetrical 
as any poem of Longfellow's. His intention and his point of view were 
comparable to those expounded by Wordsworth in his essay on "Poetic 
Diction" prefaced to the Lyrical Ballads. 

What Whitman desired was to free his verses from the traditions of 
verse-making which were likely to stand between him and his readers. 
He did not want his poetry to take its place in the ranks, as any uniformed 
private might do. He wanted it to have the admirable qualities of the 
athlete or the woodman or the primitive Indian. He therefore gave over 
the fixed rhythms that occur in ordinary stanzaic forms and the poetic 
locutions that were associated with drawing-room poetry. He aspired in 
diction to achieve "a perfectly clear, plate-glassy style," and in the fliow 
of his writings to suggest the rhythms of nature — more especially of the 
wave-beat on the shore. 

In attempting this, he became, probably without knowing it, an excellent 
literary example of reversion to type. He wanted, as one of the people, 
to write as a people's poet; and he actually did compose in the manner 
of the old folk poetry with its characteristic employment of parallel 
structure, sometimes in contrast, sometimes in repetition, sometimes in 
elaboration. This passage in commentary on himself is quite to the point : 

I call the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies, as I myself do. 
I charge you forever reject those who would expound me, for I cannot expound myself. 
I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me. 
I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free. 

A similar basic sentence architecture appears throughout the poetry of the 
Psalms, as, for example, in this passage from the twenty-sixth: 

4. I have not sat with vain persons, neither will I go in with dissemblers. 

5. I have hated the congregation of evil-doers; and will not sit with the wicked. 

6. I will wash mine hands in innocency; so will I compass thine altar, O Lord: 

7. That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving; and tell of all thy wondrous works. 

8. Lord, I have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honor dwelleth. 



678 AMERICAN POETRY 

Again, the same stylistic effect is produced in the early English "Seafarer" 
from the Exeter Book : 

I may sing of myself now a song that is true, 

Can tell of wide travel, the toil of hard days; 

How oft through long seasons I suffered and strove. 

Abiding within my breast bitterest care. 

How I sailed among sorrows in many a sea; 

The wild rise of the waves the close watch of the night 

At the dark prow in danger of dashing on rock 

Folded in by the frost, my feet bound by the cold 

In chill bands, in the breast the heart iDurning with care. 

At times, of course, Whitman has carried this parallelism to the point of 
weariness in his relentlessly long inventory passages. Only the ultra- 
enthusiast will defend these. There is fluent regularity in the clatter of 
a small boy's stick as he runs it along a picket fence, but few call it mtisic. 

This method of composition achieves a sort of automatic rhythm. But 
Whitman went far beyond this, and composed not infrequently passages 
which, taken out of their original contexts, would seem at home in any 
company. Such, for example, is the quatrain in seven-stressed lines from 
"The Song of Myself" : 

The wild gander leads the flock through the cool night, 
Ya-honk, he says, and sounds_ it down to me like an invitation. 
The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I, listening close. 
Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. 

Furthermore, at his best he was finely sensitive to the adjustment of sound 
and sense, not only in word values, but also in rhythmic variations. This 
is well illustrated in a passage from "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," which 
is reproduced exactly here, but for the purpose of the moment varies from 
the original in its appearance on the page : 

I too many and many a time crossed the river of old, 8 

Watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls, 3 

saw them high in the air 3 

floating with motionless wings, 3 

oscillating their bodies, 3 

Saw how the glistening yellow 3 

lit up the parts of their bodies 3 

and left the rest in strong shadow, 3 

Saw the slow-wheeling circles 3 

and the gradual edging toward the south, 4 

. Saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, 5 

Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, 5 

Looked at the fine centrifugal spokes 4 

of light round the shape of my head in the sunlit water 5 

Look'd on the haze on the hills southward and southwestv/ard 6 

Look'd on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tii.ged with _ violet, 6 

Look'd toward the lower bay to notice the vessels arriving, etc., etc. 6 

The reader with an ear for music will perceive throughout Whitman 
much more than meets the eye, a melodic beauty which appears most 
richly in the passages of nature description, and rather less so in the pas- 
sages of abstract content, but which is never absent long. The open-minded 
reader of taste will also find many poems or passages which are rough 
or harsh or monotonous. But only obtuseness or blind prejudice will 
deny the fine art of Whitman's best verse. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 679 

Whitman wrote as a conscious and representative democrat. In all 
people he saw himself and in himself he saw all people. Quite consciously, 
he limited the world in which he felt any vivid interest to the United 
States and the American nation. The democracy that he extolled was 
quite incidentally connected with any form of government. Even on 
public opinion, although his respect was great, he did not set much value 
as a positive daily agency for political ends. Naturally he felt little 
consequent responsibility as a voting citizen. He pinned his faith to the 
general promise of social evolution, and believed, quite in accord with 
Emerson, that if every one were good, everyone would be happy. The 
future of America was assured because the future of the race was safe, 
and the future of the race was safe because God willed it so. On this 
theme Whitman sang with epic fervor about the determinant which is at 
the back of all faith, 

the unseen Moral Essence of all the vast Materials of America (age upon age, 

working in Death the same as in Life) 
[The powers] that, sometimes known, oftener unknown, really shape and mould the 

New World. 

There was little of what is usually regarded as national aspiration 
in Whitman's feeling for race and national evolution. There is as much 
difference between his belief in the future of America and the imperial 
dreams of European nations as there was between the complementary 
ambitions of himself and Jay Gould. Whitman strove for the spiritual 
development of the community, while Jay Gould built the railroads ; but 
while Gould's vast projects reached only to the Pacific, Whitman's dreams 
extended to "beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars." 
Yet these two were really antithetical American types : the complete 
captain of industry who, in the name of progress, crushes competitors to 
the glory of God, and the abstract philanthropist who, in the name of 
brotherhood, condemns competition by the same formula. If Jay Gould 
was a harbinger of the 20th century multi-millionaires without their 
expiatory benevolence, Walt Whitman was, in a measure, a forerunner 
of several million less prosperous Americans who talk about manifest 
destiny without either his deep faith or Gould's practical sagacity. 

In his attitude toward the world of men, Whitman was by nature and 
experience even more devoid of any international sense than the average 
man of his day. His mind seemed to entertain no concepts between his 
tangibly concrete surroundings and the most distantly vague abstractions. 
There was no one in his social vista between Peter Doyle on a street-car 
and the "presence . . . whose dwelling is the light of setting suns." What 
he knew of America he knew down to the ground ; of other strata he was 
grossly ignorant, and of Europe he had no clear imagination. It was a 
philosophical encyclopedia, a thesaurus of abstractions, but not a place 
where people lived. Much less was it a community of nations which was 
for human and tangible and credible reasons fighting its way through 
the 19th century to the grim climax of the 20th. His view of the world 
was like a landscape without any middle distance. Here was America, 
in which the problems of the future were to be solved, while Europe 
stood yonder in admiring expectancy. In the fullness of time all the 



680 AMERICAN POETRY 

other nations would follow after this people, who had shown nothing 
but contempt for the Old World and a desire to be kept immaculate from it. 
So his ideas of the Old World and the New are baffling at some points 
and irritating at others. They are fragmentary and inarticulate, and in 
these respects typically American. But, after all is said and done, they 
are hope-inspiring, and in their individualistic philosophy essentially sound. 
Program-makers are cropping up on every side now ; their work was not 
his, and if he were living to-day he would still be singing indomitably of 
the future 

Have the elder races halted? 
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas? 
We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson. 

Pioneers! O pioneers! 

Whitman's dominant interest lay in the performance of his share of 
"the task eternal." The only dramatic unities to which he would submit 
included all time and all space. He is the poet whom he described as he 
sat by Blue Ontario's shore. "He bestows on every object or quality its 
fit proportion, neither more nor less. . . . He sees eternity in men and 
women." In his unfailing sense for universal law, he was at one point 
comparable to the Puritans for, although he was almost totally at variance 
with them, his mind, like theirs, "had derived a peculiar character from 
the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests." 

Among- contemporary poets on either side of the Atlantic, Whitman's 
influence in both form and spirit is quite without parallel. Witter Bynner 
wrote for many of his fellow poets in "The New World," 

Somebody called Walt Whitman 
Dead ! 

He is alive instead. 

Alive as I am. When I lift my head. 
His head is lifted. When his brave mouth speaks. 
My lips contain his word. And when his rocker creaks 
Ghostly in Camden, there I sit in it and watch my hand grow old 
And take upon my constant lips the kiss of younger truth . . . 
It is my joy to tell and to be told 
That he in all the world and me, 
Cannot be dead. 

That I, in all the world and him, youth after youth 
Shall lift my head. 



RICHARD HENRY STODDARD (1825-1903) 

Stoddard was born in 1825 in Hingham, Massachusetts, a seaside town 
a few miles southeast of Boston, When he was ten years old, after the 
death of his father at sea, his mother removed to New York and there 
remarried. He went to public schools till he was fifteen, and for the next 
nine years he tried his hand at various jobs in the field of skilled labor. 
All the while he was reading literature and making the acquaintance of 
literary people. From 1849 to 1853 he tried to support himself by writing, 
but from the latter date to 1870 he held a post in the New York Custom 
House. From i860 to 1870 he was literary editor of the New York World; 
from 1872 to about 1880, managing editor of The Aldine, a literary journal. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 681 

and from 1880 to his death in 1903, literary editor of the New York Mail 
and Express. From i860 to 1875 he was actively and somewhat miscel- 
laneously concerned in editing and re-editing various compendious works 
on poets and poetry. Volumes of his own poetry appeared during his 
lifetime in the following years: 1849 (suppressed), 1852, 1857, 1863, 1865, 
1867, 1880, 1890. 

/. Texts. 

Complete Poems, Scribners, 1880. 
//. Biography. 

Recollections, Personal and Literary, edited by R. Hitchcock, 1903. 
///, Criticism. 

Aside from the regular sources of survey criticism, the following 
articles in the periodicals are significant: Atlantic, Vol. XCIII, p. 82; 
Critic, Vol. XLIV, p. 52; Dial, Vol. XXXV, p. 299; Harper's, Vol. 
CVIII, p. 479; Nation, Vol. LXXVII, p. 469; Outlook, Vol. LXXVIII, 
p. 381- 

Richard Henry Stoddard is a representative in American literature of 
the metropolitan group of whom other conspicuous members were Bayard 
Taylor, Edmund Clarence Stedman, and Thomas Bailey Aldrich. None 
of these men was born and brought up in New York, and none of them 
partook of the nature of the town as Irving, and even Bryant and Halleck, 
had been able to do in the preceding generation, when it was compact and 
more unified. Aldrich left after a few years and went back to "the Hub," 
where he was much more content, though, as he said, he never became 
more than "Boston plated." Taylor clung to the idea of establishing a 
manorial estate at Kennet Square, Pennsylvania, but lived more or less in 
New York and buzzed restlessly about it, because the literary market was 
there. Stedman indulged in a half-hearted adoration of the Muse, but 
was careworn and preoccupied in his unsuccessful attempt to become 
independently rich. Stoddard was more stable and unexcited than the other 
two survivors, but, like them, was occupied in a succession of uninspired 
literary ventures in book-making and journalism. These men were, in a 
way, the first American literary victims to the turmoil of a city big 
enough to engulf them in its currents. Not only were they unable to 
impress their stamp on the town of their adoption, but in their inability 
they had to accept a kind of defeat. They could not enjoy the serenity 
or repose which belonged to the Boston or the Charleston of those same 
days. The world was too much with them. 

The very conditions of their culture were totally different. Bryant, 
Irving, Halleck and Greeley were self-educated men, and so were almost 
all of their New York successors. The New England group had the im- 
press of Harvard and Bowdoin and the universities of the Old World, 
and the cultured Southerners of the day were more and more of them 
going abroad for study and travel. As between two individuals, it is, of 
course, quite apparent that one may contrive to profit not at all from 
formal educational opjportunities, and the other may achieve sweetness and 



682 AMERICAN POETRY 

light by unassisted might and main. But as between two communities no 
such miracle is possible. The town in which there is no commanding 
group who have lent themselves to the leisurely contemplation of the 
things that are more excellent has missed a vital something. It is doomed 
to be relatively feverish in pulse and materialistic in point of view. 

There is an almost pathetic irony in the way in which the men of 
New York made unconscious acknowledgment of just this state of affairs. 
They turned to literature as to a haven of refuge. They escaped into it 
from life. The big city offered them no legends; they shrank from realistic 
portrayal ; they did not even care, except in rare instances, to satirize it. 
So they resorted to the limbo of sentimentalism and to distant times and 
climes. "The Ballad of Babie Bell," "Ximen; or the Battle of the Sierra 
Morena, and Other Poems," "Poems of the Orient," "The Blameless 
Prince," "Poems Lyric and Idyllic," "Konigsmark and Other Poems," "The 
King's Bell," and "The Book of the East," were the natural output of such 
a group. And the plays with which they regaled themselves were of the 
same vintage, though New York could boast few of the playwrights. 
"Tortesa the Usurer," "The Broker of Bogota," "Francesca da Rimini," 
"Leonora, or the World's Own" represented the vogue. The only two 
which interest the modern playgoer, "Fashion" and "Rip Van Winkle," 
were quite the exceptions. 

All this, it may be said, was only accumulated evidence of the romantic 
impulse at work in the city of Diedrich Knickerbocker, the impulse which 
at its best produced a whole anthology of "Tales" : "Tales of the Alham- 
bra," "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," "Twice-Told Tales." But, 
as a matter of fact, all but two of the significant works of Irving, Poe, 
and Hawthorne were written before Stoddard was twenty-seven years old, 
the year when he published the first book of poems on which he was 
willing to allow his reputation to stand. Then when the reaction — belated 
in America — took place in favor of a closer connection with actual experi- 
ence, he was left in increasing isolation as a votary of an abandoned Muse. 
It needed Lowell's trenchant comments on "Alectryon" to wean Stedman 
away from the pursuit of classical themes. Holmes did an equal service 
in his criticism of the youthful Aldrich's artificialities of style. But 
Stoddard remained unaffected by the tide of change, untouched as a 
man of letters by the Civil War, uninfluenced by the progress of science 
and the religious unrest of the Victorian period. To call attention to this 
difference between himself and his contemporaries is not necessarily to 
discredit him. On the contrary, his colleagues made a virtue of his dis- 
tinction. He is simply an illustration of the fact that no movement is ever 
all-inclusive. In an age of change, he was still the complete product of 
the influences surrounding his youth. 

Stoddard's work, then, is detached and decorative. It is not offered 
as a solace. For the most part, it simply ignores or avoids the facts of 
daily existence. If it alludes to the delight of song, it does not address 
itself to Jenny Lind by name, but modestly applauds "a celebrated singer." 
Intended for Bayard Taylor, it adopts as a title the name of his most 
recent book of poems, or for William Cullen Bryant, it appears under 
a Latin title and his birthday date. Only in the case of Lincoln does it 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 683 

violate the shy reticence of its established habit and salute him before all 
the world. It flows into natural expression in little lyrics of pleasure two 
or three quatrains in length. Though now and again they show signs of 
becoming mildly erotic, they have no passion in them. Rather, they exhibit 
the chaste delights of the virtuoso, who takes up one object after another 
from the glass-covered cabinets in the museum which his fancy has 
furnished, looks it over fondly, admires its form and color, and sets it back 
with even pulse until such time as he shall choose to gaze on it again. 

Some of these lyrics are bits of nature description like "The sky is 
thick upon the sea," but they are more likely to be nature fantasies than 
pure descriptions. Oftener they are about love^the sort of love that chooses 
a woman as its object, and then dotes on itself quite as much as on her; 
the sort of love that goes on quite placidly about heartbreak and despair, 
or that even more frequently dilates on the fascinations of the loved one 
with an Elizabethan detachment. Sometimes they are about the subject 
of wine, but they are rarely convivial in quality; sometimes the lyrics are 
philosophical in tone, and these are most nearly representative of what 
Stoddard must have felt, for they reflect the very denial of life that is 
suggested in the body of his work: 



or agam; 



Man loses but the life he lives 

And only lives the life he loses, 



There is no life on land or sea 

Save in the qviiet Moon and me; 

Nor ours is true, but only seems 

Within some dead old World of Dreams. 



Stoddard's romanticism did not lead him to aspire to a better world 
of the future; he only dreamed of a happier world that never was. 

If we pass by the prosaic stretches in his volumes, no more frequent 
or longer than in many another, we may say that at its best his verse is 
characterized by a high excellence of form. As the content does not 
spring from the vivid experiencing of immediate life, the form is con- 
sequently not dictated by the fine flow of any enthusiasm. It is excellent, 
but with the excellence of the library. It reminds us now of Tennyson, 
now of Wordsworth, of Herrick and Spenser, and of Emerson. Only at 
rare intervals, and these strangely enough in poems which purport to be 
imitative of the East, does Stoddard achieve effects which seem fresh and 
new. In "Keaa" he uses blank verse in a series of little imagistic pas- 
sages that are striking, unconventional, and rich in poetic suggestiveness. 

His best gift was like that of Aldrich, the compression into a dozen 
lines or less of lovely poetic fancies, conceits or pictures which are the 
daintier ornaments of literature. Aldrich, in his "Lyrics and Epics," 
wrote for both himself and Stoddard: 

I would be the Lyric 
Ever on the lip. 
Rather than the Epic 
Memory lets slip. 
I would be the diamond 
At my lady's ear. 
Rather than a June rose 
Worn but once a year. 



684 AMERICAN POETRY 



"JOAQUIN" MILLER (1841-1913) 

Cincinnatus Heine Miller was born in Indiana in 1841. In 1854 he 
was taken by his pioneer father across the plains to Oregon. He left home 
while still a boy, and for some years lived a most primitive frontier life 
among the gold-miners and the Indians. He was graduated from Columbia 
College, Oregon, in 1858. Up to 1870 he was variously occupied, although 
more in the law than at any other one occupation, and for four years, 
from 1866, was on the bench. With failure to secure recognition at home 
for his "Songs of the Sierras," he went to London, where as soon as they 
were issued he achieved an exotic popularity. From 1873 to 1887 his 
career is difficult to follow. Some of his most vivid experiences were in 
Europe, though it is not clear how much of his time was spent in actual 
residence. In 1887 he returned to California, on "The Heights," near 
Oakland. Here he lived a consciously picturesque life until he died in 1913. 

Few poets have been more casual in keeping record of their work in 
full. Miller was quite careless of the fate of a great deal of his magazine 
verse, believing that "anything that is worth preserving in literature will 
preserve itself." Poems appeared in book form during his lifetime in the 
following years : 1869, 1870, 1871, 1873, 1875, 1877, 1878, 1882, 1884, 1887, 
1890, 1894, 1896, 1897, 1900, 1907. 

/. Texts. 

The complete text is in the Bear Edition, 6 vols., 1909-1910. A 
single volume "complete" edition was published in 1892, 1897, and 1904. 

//. Biography. 

There is no adequate biography or even biographical study. Of 
the historians of American literature, only Churton Collins, C. F. 
Richardson, G. E. Wdodberry and F. Lr Pattee ("American Litera- 
ture Since 1870") accord him serious attention. The autobiographical 
preface to the Bear Edition, and the same material scattered through 
the one-volume editions, are the raw stuff for interpretation of Miller's 
character and aim. These can be supplemented by his own article in 
The Independent on "What is Poetry?" See also Current Literature, 
Vol. XL VIII, p. 574- 

///. Criticism. 

See the historians above mentioned and the following review 
articles: Academy, Vol. II, p. 301; Vol. LIU, p. 181; Arena, Vol. 
XII, p. 86; Vol. IX, p. 553; Vol. XXXVII, p. 271; Current Opinion, 
Vol. LIV, p. 318; Dial, Vol. LIV, p. 165; Fraser's, Vol. LXXXIV, 
p. 346; Godey's, Vol. XCIV, p. 52; Lippincott's, Vol. XXXVIII, p. 106; 
MunseVs, Vol. IX, p. 308; Nation, Vol. XXVII, p. 336; Vol. XIII, 
p. 196; Vol. XVIII, p. 77; Vol. XCVI, pp. 169, 187, 230, 544. 

The life and work of "Joaquin" Miller, poet of the Sierras, fall quite 
naturally into three divisions. The first is the thirty years of his most 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 685 

primitive experience, in which his character and point of view were deter- 
mined. In this time he lacked everything that is repressive and sophis- 
ticating in education. "Somehow I could not understand or get on with 
my fellowman. He seemed to always want to cheat me — to get my labor 
for nothing. I could appreciate and enter into the heart of an Indian. 
... I think what I most needed in order to understand, get on and not 
be misunderstood, was a long time at school, where my rough points could 
be ground down. . . . You must not have points or anything about you 
singular or noticeable if you would get on. . . . But I was as rough as 
the lava rocks I roamed over, as broken as the mountains I inhabited." ^ 
The next period was one of increasing worldliness culminating with the 
fourteen years from 1873 to 1887, when he seemed to have turned his 
back on his native environment and was enjoying a somewhat adventitious 
popularity in the East and abroad as an amusingly individual "wild West- 
erner." For a while, on account of his celebrity as an author, he actually 
was enabled to "get on" by making social capital out of his rough pointed- 
ness. In the third period he came back to the mountains with a confirmed 
distaste for the fruits of civilization and a renewed and honest delight in 
the handiwork of God. 

He was one of a very small group of 19th century American writers 
who were pre-eminently characterized by their knowledge and enjoyment 
of American life and nature at first hand; but his experiences quite sur- 
passed those of Thoreau or Burroughs or Whitman or Mark Twain in 
the elemental vigor that pervaded them. He was in six Indian campaigns 
and three times dangerously wounded; he suffered snow-blindness in 
Alaska and desert thirst in Arizona. He knew the terrors of stampede 
and flood, and of prairie and mountain fire. He knew blood-enmities, and 
friendships unto death in which the phrase was proved to the uttermost. 
All these find their way into his poetry and are recorded there so really 
and vividly as to make pallid the attempts of Byron and Shelley to give" 
to their imaginings of elemental life a local habitation and a name. 

One consequence of his life was his ability to tell romantic stories so 
that they were truly exciting, a feat in which the library poet rarely suc- 
ceeds. He presents women of wild and gorgeous beauty, not leaving their 
beauty in the abstract, and sets them fittingly on mountain slopes, or in the 
forests, or beside the turbulent waters, and makes them so worth loving 
that their loss — for they are more often lost than secured — is real tragedy. 
Those early lieroines" of Miller's are worth putting into stories, just as 
the early poetic loves of Tennyson were each worth at the utmost one 
graceful little lyric. His heroes are worth while, too. Their principles 
are not expounded, nor the things they were fighting for always made 
quite clear. In the poems there is not time ; but once in a while in the 
prose the primitive law of noblesse oblige is recorded. 

"To the Prince [a gambler] he was nothing much. . . . Why should 
the Prince take life, or even imperil ours, for his sake? . . . The man 
needed help. The man was almost helpless. This, perhaps, was the first 
and strongest reason for his course. But at the bottom of all other reasons 

^ "My Own Story," pages 45, 46. 



686 AMERICAN POETRY 

for taking care of this man . . . was a little poetical fact not forgotten. 
This man furnished bread when we were hungry." ^ 

Such nature and such life is, of course, not the poetical material for 
a contemplative poet. His people are always on the verge of, or in the 
midst of, or recovering from exciting objective adventure. And more 
than that, his Nature is not so much a spectacle as a force. Earth, air, 
fire and water are potentially volcanic, cyclonic, all consuming and inun- 
dating. You know God is behind them because of the power he displays. 
The keynote of the earliest poems pervades them all, gives the cue to his 
admirations and his antipathies, makes primitive and in a way unreal the 
love story he attempts to set in Venice and redeems the remarkable eugenic 
epithalamium of his old age "Light." 

Just how Miller understood his own capacities can be demonstrated 
by a comparison of "The Baroness of New York" — often erroneously 
referred to as a novel — a long poem which appeared as a volume in 1877, 
with "The Sea of Fire," which occupies some eleven pages in his Complete 
Poetical Works of 1897. The first poem is in two long parts, the first a 
sea-island story of love and desertion between Doughal and Adora, done 
spiritedly after the manner of Scott, and the second in the tone of Byron, 
in which she is pretending as the Baroness du Bois in New York, where 
"her true strength lay in splendid scorn of little things," and where 
Dougal (who has lost an h in his wanderings) turns up in the last few 
pages to claim her as Lord Adair. Twenty years later Miller presented 
what he thought was worth saving of this by dropping all the Byronic 
part, and reducing the rest from over 1,800 lines to about 800 by squeezing 
out the Marmionesque passages. What is left is really Miller. 

This was well done. In the sense -of wishing to embalm his earlier 
works in their original versions. Miller may be said to have had almost 
no pride of authorship. But his taste sometimes failed him even when his 
willingness to use the knife was awake. He ought never to have resorted 
to humor; what he intended for humor seldom amounted to anything finer 
than a rough jocosity. Possibly the nicer discriminations on which humor 
depends are bred better in town than in the country. It thrives in an 
atmosphere of easy familiarity, but one does not buttonhole the Sierras 
or pat them on the back. Perhaps, again, the very largeness of the land- 
scapes by which he was surrounded while he was growing up led to a 
magniloquence which made him guilty sometimes of pomposity and some- 
times of posing. Both of these artistic peccadilloes are the expressions of 
naivete. One has to learn to be simple and unaffected. It is human 
nature to be unnatural when others are looking on. 

This naturalness, on the whole, Miller more and more acquired. Al- 
though he knew and admired the great English romanticists, and although 
he preserved passages imitative of them in his later editings — a good deal 
in "A Song of the South" is pure Coleridge — the quality that pervades him 
is a simple and abounding eagerness to present life in action. The only 
author writing to-day who gives one the same sense of man at work in the 
presence of forces which are all but overwhelming is Joseph Conrad. 
As Miller aged, he desired more and more to give soul as well as body to 

l"My Own Story," pages 160, 161. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 687 

his work. Now and again he succeeded in writing something which was 
more than sheerly objective, as in the various bits in which he celebrated 
the heroism of the pioneer — whether Columbus or the Forty-Niner. And 
toward the very end of his career he to an extraordinary degree combines 
the two ambitions of his old age. The one was to present "the vision of 
worlds beyond" and the other to "leave sound and words to the winds." 
"American science has swept time and space aside. American science 
dashes along at fifty, sixty miles an hour; but American literature still 
lumbers along in the old-fashioned English stage-coach at ten miles an 
hour, and sometimes with a red-coated outrider blowing a horn. We must 
leave all this behind us. . . . When the Messiah of American literature 
comes he will come singing, so far as may be, in words of a single syllable." ^ 
The last stanza in "Sappho and Phaon," the last selection in The Com- 
plete Poems, shows how far he was consciously attempting to measure 
up to his own standard. 

God is not far; man is not far 

From Heaven's porch, where paeans roll. 

Man shall yet speak from star to star 

In silent language of the soul. 

Yon star-strewn skies be but a town. 

With angels passing up and down. 

"I leave my peace with you." Lo! these 

His seven wounds, the Pleiades 

Pierce Heaven's porch. But, resting there, 

The new moon rocks the Christ Child in 

Her silver rocking-chair. 

This is indubitably American. The porch and the rocking-chair may 
tempt the scoffer to ask why Miller did not complete the native picture by 
bringing in a palm-leaf fan and a pitcher of ice-water. If Miller had been 
asked, he would doubtless have replied that he omitted the latter American 
accessories only because they did not belong to this particular picture ; that 
Pullman cars and Niagara Falls and steam radiators and Mt. Shasta were 
all legitimate material for poetry, if only they were apropos. What one 
should remember- — what the reader of "Joaquin" Miller cannot forget — is 
that his poetry is an eloquent and often beautiful evidence of an abound- 
ingly vigorous youth and manhood and of a serenely optimistic old age. 



RICHARD HOVEY (1864-1900) 

Hovey was born in 1864 in Normal, 111., where his father was president 
of a local college. He spent much of his boyhood in Washington, D. C, 
and was graduated from Dartmouth College in 1885. He then studied at 
the General Theological Seminary in New York, and for a while was lay 
assistant in a New York ritualistic church. After deciding not to enter 
the ministry, he became journalist and actor and then, after some years 
as poet and dramatist, he became professor of English literature in Barnard 
College and lecturer in Columbia University. Throughout his life, as his 
poetry showed, he travelled widely. Volumes of his poetry appeared during 

^ Preface to Complete Poetical Works. 



688 AMERICAN POETRY 

his lifetime in 1880 (some extremely immature verse published in Wash- 
ington, D. C), 1889, 1891, 1893, 1898. He was joint author also of 
two volumes, with Bliss Carman, in 1894 and 1896, and his last work, 
"Taliesin — a Masque," which appeared in Poet-Lore in 1899, was issued 
in book form in 1900 shortly after his death. "The Holy Graal" was 
posthumously published in 1907.- He died from a sudden relapse during 
a convalescence in 1900. 

/. Texts. 

A uniform edition was published by Duffield, 1907-1908. The most 
. important single volume is Along the Trail, included in this edition, 
or in the original form by Small, Maynard & Co., 1898. 

//, Biography. 

There is no adequate biography or biographical study. 

///. Criticism. 

The best single criticism is by Bliss Carman in the preface to 
The Holy Graal and Other Fragments, 1907. See also The Younger 
American Poets, Jessie B. Rittenhouse, pp. 1-27. Among important 
periodical reviews are the following: Bookman, Vol. XI, p. 125; 
Chautauquan, Vol. XXXI, p. 452; Critic, Vol. XXXVI, p. 292; Out- 
look, Vol. LXI V, p. 566 ; Review of Reviews, Vol. XXII, p. 735. 

What thrusts itself most aggressively on the reader who makes a sur- 
vey of Hovey's entire work is the kaleidoscopic look of it at first glance, 
and the real harmony which it reveals to closer study. It is not the harmony 
of an evolving career, for in a decade there is not much room for evolu- 
tion. It is rather a pervasive unity among poems which are only apparently 
in contrast. At the outset it seems bewildering. A young poet at twenty- 
five accepts the laurel of Sidney Lanier who brought light 

Out of the darkness of fair Love's eclipse, 
Out of the jar of ways that Trade has turned, 

and sets about weaving a great mediaeval poem in Dramas. "The Quest of 
Merlin," "The Marriage of Guenevere," "The Birth of Galahad," "The 
Masque of Taliesin." It is a dim and expansive tapestry-background of 
romance, quite the natural one for a translator of Maeterlinck and of 
Mallarme. But straight against it, with all lights on full, he leads a 
procession of college boys, fraternity brothers, artistic vagabonds, and fin de 
siccle suitors and soldiers. It's like opera bouffe in the Tower of London ; 
one rubs his eyes aghast as at the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's 
Court. Yet the poet's close friend, Bliss Carman, dispels the mystery. 
"Perhaps the chief thing to be kept in mind in regard to Richard Hovey's 
treatment of the Arthurian legends is this, that he was not primarily inter- 
ested in them for their historic and picturesque value as poetic material, 
great as that value undoubtedly is . . . the problem he felt called upon to 
deal with is a perennial one, old as the world, yet intensely modern, and it 
appealed to him as a modern man. . . . The Arthurian cycle provided 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 689 

Tennyson with the groundwork of a national epic ; ... to Richard Hovey 
it afforded a modern instance stripped of modern dress. "^ 

The point, in part, is that Hovey's work is all modern, but of two dis- 
tinct sorts. As a dramatist, he chose the mediaeval setting and costume in 
order to avoid the distraction of contemporary realism. Pullman cars, 
modern hotels, country clubs and Fifth Avenue palaces were too likely to 
compete in interest with the life stuff on which he wanted to concentrate 
attention. But as a lyric poet, background was quite incidental and needed 
no evasive treatment. The mood of the moment could, in fact, be inter- 
preted simply against any simple modern setting. So the plays look 
ancient and the songs sound modern, but they are all concerned with the 
human experience that belongs to no particular time. He was not con- 
sciously busied with interpreting the spirit of the past or the spirit of 
the present either. 

Nevertheless, the spirit of "the nineties" was very evident in his work. 
It appeared most obviously in his four poems stimulated by the Spanish 
War— poems which contained a good deal of truculent idealism. If it were 
not for the wisdom in "Unmanifest Destiny," Hovey would seem to have 
been as ignorantly benevolent a "jingo" as the times ever bred, and in the 
light of this poem, in which he acknowledges that "God moves in a 
mysterious way His wonders to perform," it seems extraordinary that he 
could not conceive of God's ever fostering an "upward climbing cause 
without the sword." 

The spirit of the times came out also in his verses of Vagabondia and 
Bohemia, for Hovey was one of the rather assertive group of young 
artists who at the end of the century were in conscious revolt. Some of 
them did pastels in prose, and some ran to rondeaus and triolets and 
villanelles, most of them edited little periodicals of the Chap Book, Lark, 
and Truth in Boston type, and all of them rebelled in word and deed at 
the domination of Victorian respectability. Moreover, and this is the vital 
fact about them, none of them have really "settled down" since then. 
They may be middle-aged, and stout, and regular in diet, but on the whole 
they are still invigorated by the intellectual stimulant they quaffed in those 
Pierian days. Their Bohemianism was very much more real than the 
diluted thing about which Stedman and Aldrich rhymed thirty years 
before. It was more like the thing from which these men and Stoddard 
and Taylor actually withheld themselves. It was the sort of life which 
led to "Wanderlovers" on the one hand and the oft-sung "Stein Song" 
on the other. 

But Hovey was not satisfied with any conviviality that stopped short 
of genuine comradeship. He wrote for Dartmouth a body of tributary 
verse which is as distinguished as are Holmes's Harvard poems. And he 
wrote for his college fraternity songs and odes which are so distinguished 
as wholly to transcend the occasions for which they were prepared. In 
"Spring," read at a fraternity convention in 1896, he took up the torch 
where Whitman had laid it down as he chanted a great choral of youth 
and comradeship and out-of-doors, and of the "greater to-morrow" which 
those college boys were destined to see. This in the vein of Whitman 

* Preface to "The Holy Graal and Other Fragments," 1907. 



690 AMERICAN POETRY 

and in some approach to Whitman's manner is no finer, however, and no 
more vigorousi than the sonnets of 1898 (quoted in the text), in which, 
with an abounding vigor, he writes of the love of man and woman con- 
fronted by sea and storm and fate itself. 

This poet of Vagabondia and King Arthur's Court seems to have ex- 
pounded himself in the lines from "Spring" which follow "Give a rouse, 
then, in the Maytime" : 

A road runs east and a road runs west 
From the table where we sing; 
And the lure of the one is a roving quest. 
And the lure of the other a lotus dream. 
And the eastward road leads into the West 
Of the lifelong chase of the vanishing gleam 
And the westward road leads into the East 
Where the spirit from striving is released 
Where the soul like a child in God's arms lies 
And forgets the lure of the butterflies. 

When Stedman published his "Poets of America" in 1885, Richard 
Hovey was just coming out of college, unknown; and when Stedman pub- 
lished his "American Anthology," in 1900, Hovey was dead. Though most 
of the biographical notes were the brief and informative work of assistant 
editors, Mr. Stedman wrote a signed criticism of Hovey, which was con- 
cluded with these sentences : "Hovey, in fact, was slow to mature, and, 
when taken off, showed more promise than at any time before. He 
thought very well of himself, not without reason, and felt that he had 
enjoyed his Wanderjahr to the full, and that the serious work of his life 
was straight before him. He was ridding himself, in a measure, of certain 
affectations that told against him, and at last had a chance, with a 
university position, to utilize the fruits of a good deal of hard study and 
reflection, while nearing some best field for the exercise of his specific 
gift. That his aim was high is shown even by his failures, and in his 
death there is no doubt that America has lost one of her best-equipped 
lyrical and dramatic writers. This somewhat extended note may well be ac- 
corded to the dead singer, who, on the threshold of the new century that 
beckoned to him, was bidden to halt and abide with the 'inheritors of 
unfulfilled renown.' " 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY (1869-1910) 

Moody was born at Spencer, Indiana, July, 1869. His father was a 
steamboat captain on the Ohio River. In 1871 the family moved to New 
Albany, Indiana, living here until the death of his mother in his fifteenth 
and of his father in his seventeenth year. Moody prepared himself for 
Harvard by alternate study and teaching, and became a member of the 
class of 1893. He completed his work in three years, and spent the senior 
year in Europe as tutor for a boy. Like John Hay, to whose early career 
his own suggests certain points of comparison, he went from the Mis- 
sissippi Valley to an Eastern college, and there proved not only to be a 
natural student, but to have the natural aptitude for culture, which is 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 691 

sometimes assumed to be the exclusive heritage of old families. The 
remaining seventeen years of his life after graduation were marked by pro- 
longed and varied travels, extensive study over a wide range of languages 
and literatures, a period of eight years' membership in the English depart- 
ment of the University of Chicago, from which his resignation was reluc- 
tantly accepted, and, to crown all, versatile creative powers as artist, poet 
and dramatist. In the summer of 1909, when he seemed at the height of 
his strength, he was stricken with the fatal illness from which he died 
in October, 1910. 

He published frequently in the periodicals from 1890 to 1900. His 
works were published in book form, during his lifetime, in 1900, 1901, 1904, 
1907, 1909. 

/. Texts. 

The Masque of Judgment, 1900; Poems, 1901 ; The Fire Bringer, 
1904; The Great Divide (a prose play), 1907; The Faith Healer (a 
prose play), 1909; The Poems and Poetic Dramas of William Vaughn 
Moody, with an introduction by J. M. Manly, 1912. 

//. Biography and Criticism. 

Introduction by J. M. Manly to Poems and Plays, 2 vols. ; Some 
Letters of William Vaughn Moody, with an introduction, by D. G. 
Mason. The more significant criticisms in the periodicals include the 
following: Atlantic, Vol. CXI, p. 79; Dial, Vol. XLIX, p. 317; Vol. 
LIII, p. 484; Harper's Weekly, Vol. LIV, p. 6; Independent, Vol. 
. LXXIV, p. 314; Nation,, Vol. XCI, p. 352; Vol. XCVI, p. 130; Out- 
. look, Vol. XCVI, p. 487; Review of Reviews, Vol. XLVII, p. 272. 

The total impression received from reading Moody's works is one of 
more than epic breadth. The view from "Gloucester Moors" suggested 
the whole earth as a "vast, outbound ship of souls." "Old Pourquoi" sang 
his challenge to the Norman sky. The poetic dramas are no narrower 
than the entire scheme of salvation. Yet he did not maintain his widest 
sympathies at the cost of turning his back on his own time or country. 
In a perfectly clear, objective way he came to love his mother's country, the 
Indiana prairies, both for their rich expanse of natural beauty and for 
the golden corn with which it could "feed a universe at need." Before 
the vogue of civic celebrations had come on, he marshalled, in the mem- 
orable third stanza of the "Ode in Time of Hesitation," the most splendid 
pageant of America which has yet been written. In that poem of Spring 
he brings into a few lines a suggestion of all the confident hope he feels 
for his country's future. The Cape Ann children seeking the arbutus, 
and the hill lads of Tennessee harking to the wild geese on their northern 
flight, are one with the youth of Chicago ; the renewing green of the 
wheat fields, the unrolling of the rivers from the white Sierras, the down- 
ward creep of Alaskan glaciers, and the perennial palm crown of Hawaii. 
It is in very truth 

the eagle nation Milton saw 
Mewing its mighty youth. 



692 AMERICAN POETRY 

His love for America, however, did not dull his sense of the dangers 
that threatened its youth. Within its boundaries he was well aware of 
the economic evils which menaced it. They were not peculiar to America, 
to be sure, but they were dangers none the less. In "Gloucester Moors" 
he was disturbed, if not made fearful, by the "Sounds from the noisome 
hold." There was no hope in this poem, only speculation and distress ; but 
in "The Brute," whether it expressed a new-gained confidence, or only a 
different lyric mood, there was a sweeping optimism. Vicious as the 
machine-brute was at the moment, he was, after all, only an untamed 
power for good. Man had not learned how to control him. He was an 
elephant let loose in the menagerie, trampling and trumpeting, but sure 
to be recaught and put in harness. 

He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place; 
He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face. 
On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace. 

And without its boundaries, America, as a nation among nations, was a 
land to rejoice in only as long as it was right. In the year when the 
country was swept into excited jingoism in the first intoxication of im- 
perial outreach, Moody was full of solicitude. He was never so proud 
as when, in "The Quarry," he recorded John Hay's frustration of the 
partition of China, yet never more indignant than when he suspected that 
the proud republic might stoop 

to cheat 
And scramble in the market-place of war. 

His upbringing and education had made him too cosmopolitan to allow 
of his easily falling into Americanism of the Decatur type — "my country, 
right or wrong." 

Aside from these explicit poems of time and place, there is little of 
Moody's verse which may not be regarded as related and preliminary to 
the poetic dramas. The shorter poems contain the elemental ideas in 
the plays; they are harbingers which are confirmed and fulfilled by the 
event. This sequence of three plays gives Moody's theology in terms of 
the entire plan of salvation. As a whole, and in its details, it is con- 
fusing at the first onset, though it yields richly to study, and reveals an 
ordered philosophy in the end. As often has been the case with literary 
sequences, this one was not written in the order of its logical progression. 
Moreover, no scheme of chronology can be imposed upon it, for the suc- 
cessive parts defy any attempts at reconcilement with myth or Scripture. 
The third part, too, is uncompleted. Yet the reason of the series is ap- 
parent, and the plan of the first two parts, together with the light thrown 
on the third by certain preliminary studies, shows beyond peradventure 
where the poetic drama, "The Death of Eve," would have concluded. It 
is characteristic of Moody that he wrought this epic group from his own 
combination of Christian and pagan material, and characteristic of his 
method that he did not expound or explain, but left it to the reader to get 
the meaning clear. 

The whole is on the theme of the union between God and man, and 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 693 

the consequent incompleteness of either without the other. This unity 
is threatened by the fact that God could not rest content with peaceful 
inactivity, and that man, the crowning member of Creation, was himself 
endowed with what is in fact a divine restlessness. So, in the course of 
events, heaven became disquieted by the pride and lust and wrangling 
when the spirits of man were high, and because his pulses 

when they fell 
Sang grief, division, terror, shame and loss. 
Troubling that harmony which is the breath 
Of the gods' nostrils, yea the delicate tune 
To which they pace their souls, and act with joy 
Their several ministries. 

So the tragic undernote of "The Fire-Bringer" is that when Pandora 
sings her wonderful lyric of union between God and his creatures, even 
at that moment man has achieved his apparent victory at the awful cost 
of disunion with his Creator through Prometheus's theft of fire from 
the heavens. 

In "The Masque of Judgment" comes the second stage of the epic. 
Man, "wanton, unteachable, intolerable," had become the first to vex God, 
although his dearest pride. God's 'hope to woo him back to obedience was 
waning. Drooping "white and pitiful" on his throne he saw no recourse 
except to doom to destruction this very part of himself, for 

not a creature sinneth, but He weeps 
His own sin with His creature's. 

In the end, then, came with the day of doom, a divine error, since 

Man's violence was earnest of his strength. 
His sin, a heady overflow, dynamic 
Unto all lovely uses, to be curbed 
And sweetened, never broken with the rod! 

The carrying out of God's judgment was therefore done "with suicidal 
hand." 

The final stage was projected, but left uncompleted with "The Death 
of Eve." It contains the reconciliation of God and man through the 
voluntary return to Him of Eve — who, in Hebrew literature, is counter- 
part of Prometheus in Greek — the seeker for knowledge and power which 
should lift mankind above the brutes, and the consequent breeder of dis- 
cord between man and God. Her appeal to return to the gates of Eden, 
which Seth and. Abel, living and dead, feared to attempt, was heard by 
Cain. Together they agreed to make the journey. At this point the 
drama is left unfinished; but what was to come is revealed in two other 
poems, both of which serve as prophetic studies. The trilogy was to 
culminate with the last song of Eve, which was to stand in its peaceful 
harmony in double contrast with the conflict between Pandora's song and 
the young men's chorus in the first play, and with the chaotic destruction 
described in the dialogue between Uriel and Raphael which concludes 
the second. 

Toward this he had already made two studies, both of which failed 
to fulfil what he desired of this final chord, "both of which are yet included 



694 AMERICAN POETRY 

among his published poems, and neither of which is fully intelligible apart 
from the whole design of the trilogy. The earlier was the wild and 
defiant "I am the Woman." Though this begins 

I am the Woman, ark of the law and its breaker, 

it progresses to the point of urging obedience on man, revises the self- 
description to 

ark of the law and sacred arm to upbear it, 

and concludes, 

Open to me, O sleeping mother. The gate is heavy and strong. 
Open to me, I am come at last: be wroth with thy child no more. 

Yet this lyric did not supply the exact word with which to end, for there 
was a militant defiance in it of a spirit still tameless and only reduced 
to the acquiescence of spiritual exhaustion. 

The second study, the dramatic poem, "The Death of Eve," covers, in 
the rapid narrative of its first ninety lines, the action of the dramatic 
fragment, and then goes on in its latter part to a new song, perhaps the 
song with which the whole trilogy might have ended. For in this, although 
there is still a note of Promethean defiance, it is the glad challenge of 
the lover who will not be gainsaid: 

Far off, rebelliously, yet for thy sake, 

She gathered them, O Thou who lovest to break 

A thousand souls, and shake 

Their dust along the wind, but sleeplessly 

Searchest the Bride, fulfilled in limb and feature, 

Ready and boon to be fulfilled of Thee 

Thine ample, tameless creature, — 

Against Thy will and word, behold Lord, this is She. 

The dramatic trilogy, moreover, is not only the result of conscious 
preliminary studies such as these; it is the summation of the most funda- 
mental convictions about life which he elsewhere recorded without 
reference to this monumental work. The most striking of these is his 
theory of and his attitude toward woman. It is his clear belief that the 
influence of woman is the dominant fact in the history of mankind. In 
his attitude there are acknowledgments of awe, of reverence, of spiritual 
love, and of passion. In his theory there is the same evolutionary breadth 
that characterizes the equation of human life in which she is the greatest 
factor. In this scheme there are glimpses of the earliest theology of the 
matriarchate. There is more than a hint of Mtjttjp dedv, the mother of the 
Gods, when Eve cries out at the last 

Yea, she whose arm was round the neck of the morning star at song, 
Is she who kneeleth now in the dust and cries at the secret door, 
"Open to me, O sleeping mother." 

From this beginning both the songs of Eve progress through the ages 
when woman is subtly moulded by man's conception of her, so that her 
happiness and her very being consist in conforming herself to him. 

Still, still with prayer and ecstacy she strove 
To be the woman they did well approve. 
That, narrowed to their love. 
She might have done with bitterness and blame. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 695 

and in both she appears as the indomitable Promethean spirit who in the 
end was to fulfil that plan which in the beginning she had endangered. 
There is no reference to any woman in any of his poems which is out 
of harmony with this dominating and progressive idea. 

Again, the theory of evolution lies behind all he wrote, whether it has 
externally to do with ancient or modern times. It is developed most 
explicitly in the sardonic "Menagerie," but this statement is simply the 
basic thesis of the trilogy. It begins with a rejection of the findings 
associated with Darwin, that external causes are final determinants in 
evolution : 

Survival of the fittest, adaptation, 
And all their other evolution terms. 
Seem to omit one small consideration, 

which is no less than the existence of souls, "restless, plagued, impatient 
things. All dream and unaccountable desire." And these souls are all 
merged in the common soul of the universe, "great nature working out 
her plan" and working it out according not merely to relentless material 
laws, but "groping, testing, passing on" in a progress of creative evolu- 
tion. Moody did not feel any pettifogging embarrassment in connection 
with the citation of anachronisms against the writer of such historical plays. 
Yet if one were looking for justification for the presence of this apparently 
ultra-modern doctrine in a poem of ancient times, he could assert its 
implicit presence in much of the Greek philosophy, and point to its 
enunciation in "The Masque" by the angel I^aphael rather than by any 
mortal : 

I think for me Heaven seemed not Heaven till then 
When from our seats of peace we could behold 
The strife of ripening suns and withering moons. 
Marching of ice-floes, and the nameless wars 
Of monster races laboring to be man. 

Moody's poetry is, on the whole, emphatically not easy to read. He 
was not interested to write simple lyrics or narratives. Very few of his 
poems have even an implied narrative thread. Only in the dramas, both 
prose and poetry, did he tell clear stories. "Until the Troubling of the 
Waters," which is an apparent story, is, in fact, a dramatic exposition of 
a state of mind, and narrates the events of an early morning, themselves 
of little direct moment, in order to lead up to a climax which is left 
untold. The occasional poems are not self-explanatory nor accompanied 
by footnote helps. One must know the tragic history of Robert Shaw, 
if he is fully to understand the "Ode Written in Time of Hesitation," 
and if he does not know quite clearly the chronicle of international 
diplomacy in 1900, he will be utterly bewildered by "The Quarry." 

Again, Moody's work is far from easy to read because of the almost 
complete subordination of the external content to the internal, or subjective 
implications. In the briefer and apparently simpler lyrics, Moody fre- 
quently makes the emotion an end in itself. In poems like "On the River" 
and "The Bracelet of Grass" and "A Gray Day," the mood of grief is 
presented without explanation. The reader who must know why the sole 
spectator in the last of these, or the lovers in the former two, feel as 
they do, turns the page baffled; baffled not so much by the actual content 



696 AMERICAN POETRY 

as by the unsatisfied desire for a story. Moody lays on him the obligation 
to supply his own story or to do without one. He must be on the alert, 
as in the reading of a play that has no stage directions. 

This same alertness is indispensable if one is to catch the figurative 
and deeper meaning of poems which have also a seductively literal and 
superficial one. Few readers who would ever open to them would fail 
to grasp the significance of "The Fountain" or "Until the Troubling of 
the Waters"; but many have fallen into the error of thinking the "Road 
Hymn for the Start" was nothing more than an elevated song of vaga- 
bondia, and that "The Daguerreotype" was pure autobiography, and not 
also a record of the self-distrust felt by any poet whose reach has ex- 
ceeded his grasp. Moreover, the use of metaphor, which demands either 
close attention or keen poetic receptivity, is not limited to whole poems 
or extended passages. Moody's poetry, throughout its length and breadth, 
is far more than usually implicit and suggestive. Finally, with reference 
to the elusiveness of his work, his extremely resourceful diction includes 
many words (almost all of them nouns) that will lay low all but the most 
erudite who are unfortified by a dictionary. Those who will survive 
eidolon, hydromel, amphora and muezzin, will take thought of their mental 
stature in the face of shawm, shard, minim and chrysm, and will succumb 
to cegipan, stasimon, windelstrce, crud, draff, and blooth. Yet these words 
and their like never produce the effect of the wilful display for which 
there would be no excuse. They possess the twin virtues of nicety in 
meaning and fine adjustment to the melody of their contexts. 

The poetic beauties of Moody's work are usually distinguished and 
often exquisite. His wide and intimate knowledge of world literature 
results in an opulence of style which was markedly free from imitative- 
ness. Although his completed poems seem unrestrained and spontaneous, 
they reveal, upon close study, the utmost firmness of structure and scru- 
pulousness of detail. This structural security is most evident in the 
shorter lyrics, in which it would be difficult to make even the slightest ■ 
change without appreciably disturbing the balance. It is hardly less per- 
ceptible to the close student of the poetic dramas. Careful observation, 
for example, of the relationship between the two poems bearing the title, 
"The Death of Eve," will show how far from casual were his processes 
of composition. In versification he is equally successful in the use of 
close-knit shorter stanzaic forms, and in the freer measures of the odes. , 
He is so far a master of his medium that he does with apparent ease what 
are really difficult feats of technique. The degree to which he makes the 
sound and swing of the lines conform' to their content has already been 
suggested in a comment on his diction. Though he was possessed of so 
extraordinarily wide a vocabulary that at times the exact, and perhaps 
obvious, word for him is unusual if not unfamiliar to the average reader, 
yet in their context these challenge the challenger to carry an indictment 
against them. Far more frequent, however, are the passages in which 
Moody makes exquisite use of words within the ken of everyone, as in 
the fine shadings of the youthful flower of love, 

whose petals dim were fears, 
Awes, adorations, songs of ruth, hesitancies and tears. 



CRITICAL COMMENTS 697 

Finally, there lies in the connotative quality of Moody's workmanship, 
to which reference has already been made, perhaps the richest source of 
his poetic power. He is figurative not only in language, but in his habits 
of mind. His physical eye sees the appearance of things as a child would, 
though he interprets them as a man may. Thus 

The haggard shapes of twilight trees 

A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun 

the ivory circle of the moon 

are at once naive and sophisticated, and each one contains the aptest of 
epithets. Although he is not at all what is usually meant by a nature-poet, 
he derives from natural objects in hundreds of passages the analogies 
which give body to his thought. Such as the following need no exposition : 

_ as a man 
Who has a thing to do, and makes his fear 
An icy wind to freeze his purpose firm. 

I swiftly clomb, 
And from the utter dome 
Of most high morning laughed, and sang my loved one home. 

envious leadership 
Ditched into rivutets of little head 
The stream and onset of our expedition. 

Moody's broad fame is yet to be achieved. Even since his death the 
world has been coming anew to listen to the voice of poetry as a living 
tongue. His own public was small, and it is now being slowly augmented 
by the growing zest for poetry inspired by both the older and the newer 
poets. Because of the deep significance of his philosophy, and the con- 
summate beauty of his art, we may look forward with confidence to a 
final estimate that will put him among the greatest of American poets, 
and among the leading singers in the world choir of his day. 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



ACROSTIC 

William Paddy 15 

AGASSIZ— See Personal 446 

ALMANACS 

Nathaniel Ames, From the Almanacks of .30-34 
AMERICA— See Also Patriotic 

Freneau 

American Liberty 91 

America Independent 94 

To the Americans of the United States. . 115 

Bryant 
Oh, Mother of a Mighty Race 187 

Whittier 

The Crisis 248 

Lowell 

Harvard Commemoration Ode, x-xii 318 

Longfellow 

From The Building of the Ship 382 

Whitman 

From As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario's 

Shore 497 

From Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 510 

I Hear America Singing 513 

Song of the Banner at Daybreak 524 

Pioneers 528 

HOVEY 

The Call of the Bugles 571 

Moody 

From An Ode in Time of Hesitation 578 

AMERICAN CULTURE 

Freneau 

Literary Importation 109 

An Epistle to a Student of Dead Lan- 
guages 114 

Barlow 
From Vision of Columbus VII. . .• 127, 128 

Drake 

The National Painting 148 

To XXXX Esquire 150 

Halleck 

From Fanny i 154 

APHORISMS 
Ward 

From The Simple Cobbler of Agga- 

wam 11-13 

Emerson 

Art 205 

Compensation 205 

Friendship 205 

Forbearance 206 

699 



Character 207 

Politics 207 

Days 216 

Worship 218 

Fragments 222 

Whitman 

The Base of All Metaphysics 540 

Stoddard 

What Harmonious Is with Thee 553 

Though Thou Should'st Live a Thousand 

Years 553 

To Bear What Is; to Be Resigned 554 

ANTI^SLAVERY 

Freneau 
To Sir Toby 107 

Emerson 

Voluntaries 220 

Whittier 

Expostulation 239 

Massachusetts to Virginia 243' 

The Crisis 248 

Arisen at Last! 256 

Whitman 

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors 539 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
Bryant 

A Lifetime 193 

Emerson 

Good-bye 195 

Terminus 222 

Whittier 

Memories 242 

Longfellow 

My Lost Youth 399 

Holmes 

At a Meeting of Friends 437 

Whitman 

There Was a Child Went Forth 473 

Good-bye My Fancy 541 

Miller 

Adios 566 

Moody 

The Daguerreotype 583 

BACON— See Personal 16 

BALLADS 

HOPKINSON 

Political Ballad 39 

Battle of the Kegs 40 

Anonymous 

The Boston Tea Party 64 

The Ballad of Nathan Hale 67 



700 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



Whittier 

Skipper Ireson 257 

Longfellow 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 369 

The Skeleton in Armor '. 370 

Excelsior • 371 

Sandalphon 400 

The Cumberland 416 

Holmes 

The Ballad of the Oyster Man 421 

Stoddard 

The Flower of Love Lies Bleeding 553 

See also Poems of the Revolution and Civil 

War passim. 

BARLOW— See Personal 49 

BRADSTREET— See Personal 13, 15 

BROWN— See Personal 265, 331, 332, 333, 320 

BRYANT— See Personal 295, 313, 445, 451 

BURNS— See Personal 279 

CAROLINA— See Places 351 

CHANNING— See Personal 211 

CHARLESTON— See Places 336, 352 

CIVIL WAR 

Emerson 

Voluntaries 220 

Whittier 

Brown of Ossawatomie 266 

Barbara Frietchie 266 

Laus Deo 267 

Lowell 

The Washers of the Shroud 301 

The Biglow Papers, II Series, 2 305 

Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemo- 
ration 314 

Poems of the Civil War 320-344 

Longfellow 

Killed at the Ford 419 

Holmes 

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister 

Caroline 440 

To Canaan 441 

Lanier 

Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson 449 

Whitman 

Drum-Taps 516 

Beat! Beat! Drums! 517 

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One 

Night 521 

The Dresser 521 

COLISEUM— See Places 230 

COLUMBUS— See Personal 282, 458, 564 

CONCORD— See Places 207 

CONFEDERACY— See Places. . .326, 327, 333. 359 

CONNECTICUT— See Places 160 

COTTON— See Persons 15 



DANTE— See Personal 375, 418 

DEMOCRACY 

Whitman 

Song of the Broad Axe 486 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry 493 

Starting from Paumanok 505 

A Song 512 

I Hear America Singing 513 

One Self I Sing 537 

Miller 

Westward Ho ! 561 

DRAKE— See Personal 158 

DUDLEY— See Personal 1 

DWIGHT— See Personal 49 

ELIZABETH (QUEEN)— See Personal 1 

EMERSON, CHARLES— See Personal 207 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO— See Per- 
sonal 260, 293 

EMERSON, WALDO— See Personal 208 

ESSEX COUNTY, MASS.— See Places 259 

FABLES 

Hopkinson 

To Celia 38 

The Wasp 39 

The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat 41 

Matthews (?) 

A Fable 74 

Emerson 

Fable 208 

FANCY, POEMS OF 
Freneau 

The Power of Fancy 89 

Drake 

The Culprit Fay 139 

POE 

Tamerlane 224 

The City in the Sea ,228 

The Valley of Unrest 230 

The Haunted Palace 232 

The Conqueror Worm 232 

Dreamland 233 

Stoddard 

The Witch's Whelp 542 

FRANCE 

Freneau 

On the Prospect of a Revolution in France 112 
Whitman 

O Star of France 540 

Hovey 

From The Call of the Bugles 574 

FRANKLIN— See Personal 112 

FREEDOM 

Freneau 

American Liberty 91 

America Independent 94 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



701 



Bryant 

The Antiquity of Freedom 186 

Whitman 

Years of the Modern 531 

Stoddard 

Tyrants Sit upon Their Thrones 544 

GARRISON— See Personal 239 

HAMATREYA— See Places (Concord) 214 

HAMPTON BEACH— See Places .242 

HAVERHILL— See Places 241 

HAWTHORNE— See Personal 417 

HISTORICAL 

HOPKINSON 

Verses ^ 36 

Louisbourg 37 

Poetry of the Revolution 58-88 

Freneau 

On the British Commercial Depredations 116 

DWIGHT 

Destruction of the Pequods 118 

Halleck 

Marco Bozzaris 158 

The Iron Grays 159 

Field of the Grounded Arms 167 

Bryant 

The Twenty-Second of December 182 

Song of Marion's Men 184 

Seventy-Six 185 

The Battle Field 185 

Emerson 

Concord Hymn 198 

Whittier 

Pentucket 241 

Skipper Ireson 257 

Garrison of Cape Ann 262 

The Double Headed Snake of Newbury. . 264 

Barbara Frietchie 266 

Abraham Davenport 274 

Lowell 

Columbus 282 

Poems of the Civil W.ar 320-344 

Longfellow 

The Skeleton in Armor 370 

Paul Revere's Ride 401 

The Birds of Killingworth 412 

Killed at the Ford 419 

Holmes 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 429 

Lexington 431 

Lanier 

The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson 449 

Sonnets of Columbus 458 

Whitman 

The Centenarian's Story 518 

O Star of France 540 

Miller 

Westward Ho ! 561 

Columbus 564 

HOLMES— See Personal 297 



HUDSON RIVER— See Places 139 

HUMOROUS 
Lowell 

Without and Within : 298 

Holmes 

The Music Grinders 422 

The Comet 424 

Daily Trials 425 

The Stethoscope Song 430 

HYMNS 

HOPKINSON 

Morning Hymn 36 

Dwight 

Love to the Church 124 

Bryant 

Hymn to the North Star 173 

Emerson 

Concord Hymn 198 

POE 

Hymn 231 

Whittier 

The Eternal Goodness 268 

Our Master 272 

Holmes 

Hymn of Trust 438 

A Sun-Day Hymn 438 

INDIAN, THE 

Freneau 

The Indian Burying Ground 110 

D wight 

The Destruction of the Pequods 118 

Halleck 

Red Jacket 163 

Bryant 

Monument Mountain 171 

Longfellow 

Burial of the Minnisink 366 

Miller 

The Last Taschastas 556 

Kit Carson's Ride 558 

The Sioux Chief's Daughter 562 

INDUSTRIALISM 

Dwight 

Farmers' Advice to Villagers 121 

Halleck 

From Fanny: Success in New York 
City 157 

Bryant 

A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal .... 180 
Song of the Sower 189 

Whittier 

Shoemakers 245 

Huskers 246 

TiMROD 

The Cotton Boll 354 

Lanter 

Com 451 

The Symphony i 453 



702 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



Moody 

Gloucester Moors 560 

JACKSON— See Personal 381 

JOURNALISM 

Freneau 

The Epigram = 102 

A Newsman's Address (1784) 106 

A Newsman's Address (1786) 106 

To the Public 113 

To My Book 114 

Lowell 

Biglow Papers, I Series, 6 290 

KEATS— See Personal 457 

KOSSUTH— See Personal 250 

LAKE WINNEPESAUKEE— See Places.. . 251 

LINCOLN— See Personal 192, 316, 532, 537, 549 

LIND, JENNIE— See Personal 543 

LONGFELLOW— See Personal 297, 361, 364 

LOUISIANA— See Places 324 

LYRICS 

Bradstreet 
Letters to Her Husband 8-10 

Morton 

Song 11 

HOPKINSON 

Ode on Music 35 

Song 35 

Advice to Amanda 35 

My Generous Heart Disdains 42 

Freneau 

The Power of Fancy 89 

Retirement 90 

On a Honey-Bee 116 

Bryant 

To a Waterfowl 170 

O Fairest of the Rural Maids 170 

Emerson 

Thine Eyes Still Shined 196 

Holidays 205 

Dirge, Concord, 1838 207 

The Romany Girl 216 

POE 

To 226 

A Dream Within a Dream 226 

Romance 227 

Sonnet — to Science 227 

To 227 

To Helen 227 

Israfel 228 

The City in the Sea 228 

The Sleeper 229 

Lenore 229 

The Valley of Unrest 230 

To One in Paradise 230 

The Coliseum 230 

ToF 231 

Sonnet to Zante 231 

The Haunted Palace 232 

The Conqueror Worm 232 



Dream-Land 233 

The Bells 236 

To My Mother 237 

Annabel Lee 238 

Eldorado 238 

Whittier 

Maud Muller 253 

Lowell 

I would not have this perfect love 278 

My Love, I have no fear that thou 

should'st die 278 

Our Love Is Not a Fading Earthly Flower 278 

Song 280 

The Changeling 285 

She Came and Went 286 

The First Snow Fall 298 

Auf Wiedersehen, and Palinode 299 

TiMROD 

Sonnet 345 

Sonnets and Katie 348 

Spring 350 

Hayne 

The Will and the Wing 359 

My Study 359 

A Little While I Fain Would Linger Yet 364 

In Harbor 365 

Longfellow 

Serenade from The Spanish Student. ... 372 

The Bridge 373 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 374 

The Arrow and the Song 375 

Twihght 382 

Resignation 383 

My Lost Youth 399 

The Children's Hour 415 

Weariness 416 

Holmes 

A Portrait 425 

"Qui Vive!" 427 

Lanier 

Night and Day 449 

Heartstrong South and Headstrong North 460 

The Stirrup Cup 461 

Song of the Future 463 

Whitman 

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking. . . . 500 

Stoddard 

Fragments 544, 546 

The Divan 545 

Imogen 545 

A Catch 552 

Miller 

England 559 

Songs from Sappho and Phaon 564 

HOVEY 

Comrades 568 

The Wander Lovers 568 

At the End of Day 572 

Love in the Winds 572 

Unmanifest Destiny 575 

After Business Hours 576 

From Taliesin: A Masque 576 

Faith and Fate 576 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



703 



MARYLAND— See Places 325 

MATHER, COTTON-^See Personal 162, 265 

MELVILLE— See Personal 423 

MUSKET AQUID— See Places 214 

NAPLES— See Places 196 

NARRATIVE 

WiGGLESWORTH 

The Day of Doom 18 

Drake 

The Culprit Fay 139 

Halleck 

Marco Bozzaris 158 

Bryant 

Monument Mountain. 171 

POE 

Tamerlane 224 

The Raven 233 

Ulalume 235 

Whittier 

Skipper Ireson 257 

Garrison of Cape Ann 262 

Barbara Frietchie 262 

Abraham Davenport 274 

Lowell 

From The Vision of Sir Launfal 291 

Longfellow 

From Evangeline -. 376 

From Hiawatha 383 

From The Courtship of Miles Standish . . 395 

Paul Revere's Ride 401 

King Robert of Sicily 402 

The Saga of King Olaf 405 

The Birds of Killingworth 412 

Holmes 

The Deacon's Masterpiece. 434 

Lanier 

The Revenge of Hamish 463 

Whitman 

Walt Whitman, Section 34, A Texas 

Massacre 481 

Sections 35 and 36, An Old-Fashioned 

Sea-Fight 482 

The Singer in the Prison 538 

Stoddard 
The King Is Dead 552 

Miller 

With Walker in Nicaragua 555 

The Last Taschastas 556 

Kit Carson's Ride 558 

The Sioux Chief's Daughter 562 

NATURE 

THE BEE 

Freneau 

On a Honey-Bee 116 

Emerson 

The Humble-Bee 198 

Whittier 

Telling the Bees 263 



Lanier 

The Bee 462 

Bradstreet 

Contemplations 4 

Freneau 

The Wild Honey Suckle 110 

May to April 110 

To a Caty-Did 117 

Bryant 

Thanatopsis 169 

To a Waterfowl 170 

Summer Wind 171 

A Forest Hymn 174 

The Death of the Flowers 178 

June 179 

The Evening Wind 183 

To the Fringed Gentian 184 

Robert of Lincoln 187 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree 188 

Song of the Sower 189 

Emerson 

The Rhodora 197 

The Humble-Bee 198 

Each and All 198- 

Woodnotes 200 

The Snow-Storm 204 

Blight 206 

Two Rivers 217 

Seashore 217 

Waldeinsamkeit 218 

The Titmouse 219 

My Garden 221 

Whittier 

Pictures 250 

The Last Walk in Autumn 259 

Telling the Bees 263 

Lowell 

To the Dandelion 281 

Timrod 

Spring 350 

The Cotton Boll 354 

Hayne 

The Mocking Bird 361 

Longfellow 

Woods in Winter 366 

Lanier 

Corn 449 

Song of the Chattahoochee 461 

The Mocking Bird 461 

The Bee 462 

The Marshes of Glynn 465 

The Marsh Song — Sunset 467 

Sunrise 470 

Whitman 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry 493 

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking. ... 500 

Miller 

Dawn— From a Song of the South 560 

Crossing the Plains 561 

NEW YORK CITY— See Places 154 



704 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



OCCASIONS, POEMS OF 

HOPKINSON 

Verses ... for the Expedition against 

Louisbourg 36 

On the Late Expedition against Louis- 
bourg 37 

Freneau 

The Midnight Consuhation 92 

On the Memorable Victory of Paul Jones 99 

Arnold's Departure 101 

Ode on the Frigate Constitution 115 

Bry.ant 
The Twenty-Second of December 182 

Whittier 

Expostulation 239 

Massachusetts to Virginia 243 

The Crisis 248 

Ichabod 249 

Laus Deo 267 

Lowell 

The Biglow Papers, I Series, 6 286-291 

The Washers of the Shroud 301 

The Biglow Papers, II Series, 2 303-313 

Harvard Commemoration Ode 314 

Poems of the Crvn, War 320-344 

Read 

Sheridan's Ride 339 

TiMROD 

Ethnogenesis 349 

Carolina 351 

Charleston 352 

Hayne 

Beyond the Potomac 359 

Holmes 

Old Ironsides 422 

The Boys 436 

At a Meeting of Friends 437 

Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College 438 

All Here 447 

ODES 

HOPKINSON 

Ode on Music 35 

Odell 

Ode for the New Year S3 

Freneau 

Ode on the Frigate Constitution 115 

Bryant 

Hymn to the North Star 173 

Emerson 

Threnody 208 

Ode to W. H. Channing 211 

Lowell 

The Washers of the Shroud 301 

Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemora- 
tion 314 

SlMMS 

Ode: Our City by the Sea 336 

TlMROD 

Ethnogenesis 349 

The Cotton BoU 354 



HOVEY 

Spring 569 

The Call of the Bugles 572 

^lOODY 

An Ode in Time of Hesitation 577 

OLD AGE, POEMS OF 
Bryant 

A Lifetime 193 

Emerson 

Terminus 222 

Hayne 

A Little While I Fain Would Linger Yet 364 

In Harbor 365 

Holmes 

All Here 447 

Whitman 

Good-bye My Fancy 541 

Stoddard 

Though Thou Should'st Live a Thousand 

Years 553 

Miller 

Adios 556 

PASTOR.ALS 

Lewis 

A Journey from Patapsco to Annapolis . . 24 

Freneau 

Retirement 90 

Barlow 
The Hasty Pudding 130 

Whittier 

The Huskers 246 

Maud Muller 253 

The Barefoot Boy 256 

The Last Walk in Autumn 259 

Telling the Bees 263 

Snowbound .' 269 

Among the Hills, Prelude 275 

Lowell 

The Biglow Papers — The Courtin' 303 

Longfellow 

The Village Blacksmith 368 

Stoddard 
The Country Life 552 

PATRIOTISIM 
Barlow 

Columbiad 123 

D wight 

Columbia 123 

Drake 

The American Flag 136 

Bryant 

Oh, Mother of a Mighty Race 187 

Our Country's Call 189 

TiLTON 

God Save the Nation 334 

Ho\VE 

Battle Hymn of the RepubUc 335 

TiMROD 

Ethnogenesis 349 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



705 



Longfellow 

From The Building of the Ship 382 

Whitman 

Starting from Paumanok 505 

Song of the Banner at Daybreak 524 

Pioneers ! Pioneers! 528 

HOVEY 

The Call of the Bugles 572 

Moody 

An Ode in Time of Hesitation 577 

PEACE 

Barlow 

From Vision of Columbus IX 129 

Bryant 

Christmas in 1875 192 

Lowell 

The Biglow Papers, I Series, i 286 

The Biglow Papers, II Series, 10 311 

TiMROD 

Christmas 353 

Address to the Old Year 358 

Longfellow 

The Arsenal at Springfield 372 

Christmas Bells 418 

Holmes 

Non-Resistance 441 

The Moral Bully 442 

PERSONAL 

Agassiz, A Farewell to Holmes 446 

Bacon. Bacon's Epitaph Made by His 

Man 16 

Barlow (and D wight), Lines to. . . Trumbull 49 
Bradstreet, Anne. On "The Tenth Muse" 

Wari 13 

Bradstreet, Anne Rogers 13 

Bradstreet, Anne B.W. 15 

Brown, John. Brown of Ossawatomie 

Whiaier 265 
How Old Brown Took Harper's Ferry 

Stedman 320 

John Brown's Body Brownell 331, 332, 333 

Bryant. From "A Fable for Critics". .Lowell 295 

On Board the '76 Lowell 313 

Bryant's Seventieth Birthday Holmes 445 

Vates Patriae Stoddard 551 

Burns. An Incident in a Railroad Car 

Lowell 279 

Channing, W. H., Ode to Emerson 211 

Columbus Lowell 382 

Sonnets on Lanier 458 

Columbus Miller 564 

Cotton, John. A Funeral Elegy . . . Norton 15 

Dante Longfellow 375 

Divina Commedia Longfellow 418 

Drake, Death of Halleck 158 

Dudley, Thomas Bradstreet 1 

Dwight (and Barlow), Lines to. . . Trumbull 49 

Elizabeth (Queen) Bradstreet 1 

Emerson. The Last Walk in Autumn XIV 

Whittier 260 

From "A Fable for Critics" Lowell 293 

Emerson, Charles: Dirge Emerson 207 

Emerson, Waldo: Threnody Emerson 208 



Franklin, Benjamin Freneau 112 

Garrison, William Lloyd Whittier 239 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel Longfellow 417 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell Lowell 297 

Jackson, Stonewall. Stonewall Jackson's 

Way Palmer 331 

Keats. Clover Lanier 457 

Kossuth Whittier 250 

Lincoln, Abraham Bryant 192 

From Harvard Commemoration Ode 

Lowell 316 

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard 

Bloom'd Whitman 532 

O Captain, My Captain Whitman 537 

A Horatian Ode Stoddard 549 

Lind, Jennie ( ?) . To a Celebrated Singer 

Stoddard 543 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth Lowell 297 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth Hayne 361 

The Snow-Messengers Haytie 364 

Mather, Cotton 

Connecticut XIII Halleck 162 

The Double-Headed Snake, II, 76-85 

Whittier 265 
Melville, Major Thomas. The Last Leaf 

Holmes 423 

Phillips, Wendell •. Lowell 281 

Poe, Edgar Allan 

From A Fable for Critics Lowell 297 

Shakespeare Holmes 444 

Stone, Samuel, Threnodia on Bulkley 17 

Sumner, Charles 

The Last Walk in Autumn XVI Whittier 260 
Taylor, Bayard 

The Last Walk in Autumn XV . . Whittier 260 

Under the Cedarcroft Chestnut.. .Lanier 462 

Poems of the Orient Stoddard 545 

Thoreau (?). Woodnotes, I, 2 .. .Emerson 200 
Timrod, Henry 

Under the Pine Hayne 361 

Tucker, Ellen 

Thine Eyes Still Shined Emerson 196 

. Washington, War and Sewall 76 

Webster, Daniel Emerson 197 

Ichabod Whittier 249 

The Statesman's Secret ^.Holmes 443 

Whittier, John Greenleaf 

The Snow-Messengers Hayne 363 

Wolfe, General, The Death of ? 59 

PHILLIPS— See Personal 281 

PHILOSOPHICAL 

Emerson 

Each and All 197 

Blight 206 

World-Soul 212 

Brahma 216 

Longfellow 

Psalm of Life 367 

The Wind Over the Chimney 417 

Holmes 

The Chambered Nautilus 432 

Lanier 

Acknowledgment 452 

Remonstrance 467 

How Love Looked for Hell 468 



7o6 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



Whitman 

From Walt Whitman 474 

From The Song of the Open Road 489 

With Antecedents 514 

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer. 531 

The Base of All Metaphysics 540 

Stoddaed 

What Harmonious Is with Thee 553 

Though Thou Should'st Live a Thousand 

Years 554 

To Bear What Is; to Be Resigned 554 

Miller 

Question ? 560 

Moody 

The Menagerie 581 

PLACES, POEMS OF 

Carolina Timrod 351 

Charleston 

Our City by the Sea Simms 336 

Charleston Timrod 352 

Coliseum, The Poe 230 

Concord 

Dirge, 1838 Emerson 207 

Hamatreya Emerson 214 

Confederacy, The 

Dixie Pike 326 

The Song of the Exile Pike 327 

The Sweet South Simms 333 

Beyond the Potomac Hayne 359 

Connecticut Halleck 160 

Essex County, Mass. 

The Last Walk in Autumn Whitlier 259 

Hampton Beach Whitlier 242 

Haverhill 

Pentucket Whitlier 241 

Hudson River, The 

The Culprit Fay Drake 139 

Lake Winnepesaukee 

Summer by the Lakeside Whitlier 251 

Louisiana, The Heart of Stanton 324 

Maryland Randall 325 

MuSKETAQUiD Emerso:: 214' 

Naples, Written in Emerson 196 

New York City 

Fanny Halleck 154 

Portland, Me. 

My Lost Youth Longfellow 399 

Rome, Written at Emerson 196 

San Francisco 

At Our Golden Gate Miller 563 

Saratoga 

The Field of the Grounded Arms. Halleck 167 
South, The 

Storm and Calm Timrod 357 

POE— See Personal 297 

POETRY, THE ART OF 
Drake 

To a Friend 136 



Emerson 

From the Poets 195 

The Problem 199 

Art 205 

Merlin 213 

The Test 218 

Fragments 222 

Lowell 

The Shepherd of King Admetus 279 

From A Fable for Critics 293 

Invita Minerva 299 

The Origin of Didactic Poetry 300 

Timrod 

From A Vision of Poesy 345 

Longfellow 

The Day Is Done 373 

Seaweed 375 

Birds of Passage . . 376 

Holmes 

From Poetry 426 

Stoddard 

How Are Songs Begot and Bred? 544 

POETRY, SELF-ANALYSIS 

Bradstreet 

Prologue 3 

The Author to Her Book 8 

Freneau 

To My Book 114 

To the Americans of the United States. . 115 

Bryant 

I Broke the Spell That Held Me Long. . . 179 
I Cannot Forget with What Fervid Devo- 
tion 179 

The Battle Field 185 

The Poet 191 

A Lifetime 193 

Emerson 

Good-bye 195 

Written in Naples 196 

Written at Rome 196 

The Apology 198 

Blight 206 

Etienne de la Boece 216 

Terminus 222 

Whittier 

Panorama (Conclusion) 257 

The Waiting 266 

Lowell 

From A Fable for Critics 298 

Hayne 

The Will and the Wing 359 

My Study 359 

Longfellow 

Prelude 367 

Holmes 

From A Rhymed Lesson 428 

To My Readers 440 

Lanier 

The Bee 462 

Whitman 

From As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario's 

Shore 497 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



707 



I Hear It Was Charged against Me 513 

Me Imperturbe 513 

Myself and Mine 514 

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun 523 

A Carol Closing Sixty-Nine . . . . ; 541 

Stoddard 

The Yellow Moon Looks Slantly Down. . 544 

Moody 

The Daguerreotype 583 

POLITICAL 

HOPKINSON 

Ballad, Written in 1777 39 

Battle of the Kegs 40 

The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat 41 

Trumbull 

MTingal, Canto III, The Liberty Pole . . 50 

Freneau 

A Pohtical Litany 90 

American Liberty 91 ' 

America Independent 94 

A Prophecy 102 

The Political Balance 103 

On the Prospect of a Revolution in France 111 

Congress HaU, New York 112 

The American Soldier 112 

The Pohtical Weathercock 115 

On the British Commercial Depredations 118 

Drake 

To Captain Seaman Weeks 149 

Bryant 

The Antiquity of Freedom 186 

Whittier 

Letter (from missionary of M. E. Church) 254 

Lowell 

Biglow Papers, I Series, 3 288 

PORTLAND— See Places 399 

RELIGIOUS 

Bradstreet 

Contemplations . : 4 

Wigglesworth 

The Day of Doom 18 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 21 

Bryant 

To a Waterfowl 170 

Hymn to Death 176 

Hymn to the City 183 

Christmas in 1875 192 

Emerson 

Brahma 216 

Whittier 

First Day Thoughts- 251 

Holmes 

The Deacon's Masterpiece 434 

Moody 

Good Friday Night 577 

ROME— See Places 196 

SAN FRANCISCO— See Places 563 

SARATOGA— See Places 167 



SATIRICAL 

HOPKINSON 

The Wasp 39 

Ballad, Written in 1777 39 

Battle of the Kegs 40 

The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat 41 

Trumbull ^ 
The Progress of Dullness, Part III, Har- 
riet Simper : 43 

M'Fingal, Canto III, The Liberty Pole. . 50 

Anonymous 

The Present Age 77 

Odell 

The Congratulation 78 

The American Times 81 

Freneau 

A Pohtical Litany 90 

The Midnight Consultation 92 

The British Prison Ship, Canto II 96 

A Prophecy 101 

The Political Balance 103 

Literary Importation 109 

The American Soldier 112 

Congress Hall, New York 112 

The Pohtical Weather- Cock 115 

Halleck and Drake 

The Croaker Papers 147-153 

Halleck 

Cotton Mather 162 

Whittier 

Letter (from missionary of M. E. Church) 254 

The Double-Headed Snake of Newbury.. 264 

Among the Hills, Prelude 275 

Holmes 

To the Portrait of a Lady 421 

My Aunt 423 

Latter Day Warnings 432 

Contentment 433 

The Deacon's Masterpiece 434 

SHAKESPEARE— See Persons 444 

SONGS 

Anonymous 

To Arms, to Arms! My Jolly Grena- 
diers 58 

General Wolfe (?) 

How Stands the Glass Around 59 

Dickinson 

Come Join Hand in Hand 61 

Anonymous 

A Tory Parody of the Above 61 

The Parody Parodized 62 

The Liberty Pole Satirized 63 

Stansbury 

A Song 64 

When Good Queen Elizabeth Governed 

the Realm 65 

Thomas Paine 

Liberty Tree 66 

Anonymous 

A Song 66 

A Ballad 68 



7o8 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



Odell 

Song 69 

A Birthday Song 71 

Stansbury 

A Pastoral Song 72 

Anonymous 

Yankee Doodle 73 

Yankee Doodle's Expedition to Rhode 

Island 75 

Odell (?) ' 

The Old Year and the New 77 



SxANSBtHRY 

Lords of the Main 84 

Archer (?) 

Volunteer Boys 85 

Stansbury 

Song for a Venison Dinner 86 

Let Us Be Happy as Long as We Can ... 87 

Anonymous 

CornwaUis Burgoyned 87 

SOUTH, THE— See Places 357 

TAYLOR— See Personal 260, 462, 545 

THEATRE 

Anonymous 

The Epilogue 73 

Sewall 

Epilogue to Cato — A Cry to Battle 75 

Feeneau 

Prologue to a Theatrical Entertainment. 101 

Halleck 

To Mr. Simpson. . 147 

To E. Simpson, Esquire 149 

An Address 152 



Halleck and Drake 
To Mrs. Barnes 151 

TiMROD 

At the Opening of the New Theatre at 
Richmond 356 

THOREAU— See Personal 206 

TIMROD— See Personal 361 

TUCKER— See Personal 196 

WASHINGTON— See Personal 76 

WEBSTER— See Personal 197, 249, 443 

WHITTIER— See Personal 363 

WOLFE, GENERAL— See Personal 59 

WOMAN 
Bradstreet 

Queen Elizabeth 1 

The Prologue 3 

Hopkinson 

Advice to Amanda 35 

Trumbull 

The Progress of Dullness, Part III 43 

Halleck 

Fanny's Education 155 

Holmes 

The Voiceless 435 

Lanier 

The Symphony, 11. 211-324 455 

Stoddard 

Without and Within 547 

Moody 

The Daguerreotype 583 

The Death of Eye 586 



INDEX OF PERIODICAL PUBLICATION 



The following list of entries is intended as a start toward a full index which will show the 
relation between the poets of the country and the periodicals by which they have been encour- 
aged to write. The information could be much more complete. Special bibliographical work 
has been very fully done with reference to Freneau, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell, and Holmes. In 
the case of many others it has been fairly easy to locate poems. In case of one or two poets 
numerous citations of original sources have turned out to be unveriiiable, and in the cases of 
Timrod, Hayne, Whitman, Stoddard, and Miller the information is extremely meagre, so that 
the editor in many cases does not even know whether many of their poems appeared originally 
through the periodicals or in collected volumes issued by the poets. Supplementary informa- 
tion will be gratefully welcomed. 



Amateur. 

Holmes: To the Portrait of "A Lady" (June, 
1830), 421; The Ballad of the Oyster-Man (July, 
1830), 421; The Last Leaf (March, 1831), 423. 
American Monthly Magazine, New York and Bos- 
ton, 1833-6. 
Holmes: "Qui Vive?" (Nov., 1836), 427. 
American Whig Review, New York, 1845-7, 1848-52. 

Poe: Ulalume (Dec, 1847), 235. 
Anti-Slavery Standard. 

Lowell: Biglow Papers, No. VI (May, 1848), 290; 
The First Snow-Fall (Dec, 1849), 298. 
Appleton's Journal, New York, 1869-81. 

Lanier: The Revenge of Hamish (1878), 463. 
Atlantic Monthly, Boston, 1857 — . 

Bryant: The Planting of the Apple-Tree (Jan., 

1864), 188. 
Emerson: The Romany Girl (Nov., 1857), 216; 
Seashore (Jan., 1858), 217; The Test (Jan., 
1861), 218; The Titmouse (May, 1862), 219; 
Voluntaries (Oct., 1863), 220; My Garden 
(Dec, 1866), 221; Terminus Qan., 1867), 222. 
Whittier: Telling the Bees (April, 1858), 263; 
The Double-Headed Snake of Newbury 
(March, 1859), 264; Barbara Frietchie (Oct., 
1863), 266; Abraham Davenport (May, 1866), 
274; Among the Hills (Jan., 1868), 275. 
Lowell: The Origin of Didactic Poetry (Nov., 
1857), 300; The Washers of the Shroud (Nov., 
1861), 301; The Biglow Papers, second series 
(Feb., 1862), 303; Mr. Hosea Biglow to the Edi- 
tor of the Atlantic Monthly (April, 1865), 311; 
On Board the '76 (Jan., 1865), 313; Ode Recited 
at the Harvard Commemoration (Sept., 1865), 
314. 
Longfellow: Sandalphon (April, 1858), 400; Paul 
Revere's Ride (Jan., 1861), 401; The Birds of 
Killingworth (Dec, 1863), 412; The Children's 
Hour (Sept., 1860), 415; The Cumberland (Dec, 
1862), 416; Weariness (Nov., 1863), 416; Haw- 
thorne (Aug., 1864), 417; The Wind Over the 
Chimney (Jan., 1865), 417; Divina Commedia 
(Dec, 1864), 418; Killed at the Ford (April, 
1866), 419. 



Holmes: Latter-Day Warnings (Nov., 1857), 432; 
The Chambered Nautilus (Feb., 1858), 432; Con- 
tentment (Sept., 1858), 433; The Deacon's Mas- 
terpiece (Sept., 1858), 434; The Voiceless (Oct., 
1858), 435; The Boys (Feb., 1859), 436; At a 
Meeting of Friends (Aug., 1859), 437; Hymn of 
Trust (Nov., 1859), 438; A Sun-Day Hymn 
(Dec, 1859), 438; Brother Jonathan's Lament 
for Sister Caroline (May, 1861), 440; Bryant's 
Seventieth Birthday (Dec, 1864), 445. 
Hovey: Love in the Winds (April, 1898), 572; After 

Business Hours (Aug., 1898), 576. 
Moody: Good Friday Night (May, 1898), 577; An 
Ode in Time of Hesitation (May, 1900), 577. 
Atlantic Souvenir, Boston, 1826-32. 

Bryant: "I Broke the Spell That Held Me Long" 

(1826), 179; June (1826), 179. 
Longfellow: Burial of the Minnisink (1827), 366. 
Baltimore Museum. 

Poe: The Haunted Palace (April, 1839), 232. 
Baltimore Saturday Visitor. 

Poe: The Coliseum (1833), 230. 
Boatswain's Whistle, Boston. 

Emerson: Seashore (Nov., 1864), 217. 
Bookman, New York, 1895 — . 

Hovey: Faith and Fate (April, 1900), 576. 
Boston Book. 

Longfellow: The Wreck of the Hesperus (1841), 
369. 
Boston Courier 

Lowell: The Biglow Papers, III (Nov., 1847), 288. 
Boston Daily Advertiser. 

Holmes: Old Ironsides (Sept., 1830), 422. 
Boston Evening Transcript. 

Holmes: To Canaan (Aug., 1862), 441. 
Boston Miscellany. 

Lowell: The Shepherd of King Admetus (1842), 
279. 
'Century, New York, 1881 — . 

Lanier: Remonstrance (April, 1883), 467; How 
Love Looked for Hell (March, 1884), 468. 
Christian Examiner, Boston, 1824-69. 

Bryant: Hymn of the City (1830), 183. 
Continent, Philadelphia and New York, 1882-4. 
Lanier: Marsh Song— At Sunset (Feb., 1882), 467. 



709 



7IO 



INDEX OF PERIODICAL PUBLICATION 



Crayon. 

Lowell: Invita Minerva (May, 1855), 299. 
Daily Advertiser, New York. 

Freneau: On the Prospect of a Revolution in 
France (March, 1790), 111; Congress Hall, 
New York (March, 1790), 112; On the Death 
of Dr. Benjamin Franklin (April, 1790), 112. 
Democratic Review, Washington and New York, 
1837-59. 
Bryant: The Battle-Field (Oct., 1837), 185. 
Lowell: An Incident in a Railroad Car (Oct., 
1842), 279. 
Diadem, Philadelphia. 

Emerson: Fable (1846), 208; The World-Soul 
(1847), 212. 
Dial, Boston, 1840-44. 

Emerson: The Problem (July, 1840), 199; Wood- 
notes, I (Oct., 1840), 200; Woodnotes, II 
Oct., 1841), 201; The Snow-Storm (Jan., 1841), 
204; Holidays (July, 1842), 205; Forbearance 
(Jan., 1842), 206; Blight (Jan., 1844), 206. 
Evening Mirror. 

Poe: The Raven (Jan., 1845), 233. 
Flag of Our Union. 

Poe: To My Mother (1849), 237. 
Freeman's Journal, or the N.ew Hampshire Gazette. 
Anonymous: Independence (Aug., 1776), 68; A 
Ballad (Oct., 1776), 68; The Present Age (Oct., 
1779), 77. 
Freneau: On the Memorable Victory of Paul 
Jones (Aug., 1781), 99; Arnold's Departure 
(July, 1782), 101. 
Freeman's Journal. 

Freneau: Prologue to a Theatrical Entertain- 
ment (Jan., 1782), 101; Epigram on Mr. Riving- 
ton's Gazette (Feb., 1782), 102; A Prophecy 
(March, 1782), 102; The PoUtical Balance (April, 
1782), 103; The Progress of Balloons (Dec, 
1784), 108; The Wild Honey Suckle (Aug., 1786), 
110. 
Galaxy, New York, 1866-78. 

Lanier: The Mocking Bird (Aug., 1877), 461. 
Gift, Philadelphia, 1836-7, 1839-40, 1842-5. 

Emerson: Dirge (1839), 207. 
Godey's Lady's Book, Philadelphia and New York, 
1830-98. 
Poe: To One in Paradise (Jan., 1831), 230. 
Graham's Magazine, Philadelphia, 1841-58. 

Poe: The Conqueror Worm (Jan., 1843), 232; 

Dream-Land (June, 1844), 233; 
Lowell: To the Dandelion (Jan., 1845), 281. 
Longfellow: Serenade (Sept., 1842), 372; The Ar- 
senal at Springfield (April, 1844), 372. 
Bryant: O Mother of a Mighty Race (July, 1847), 
187. 
Independent, New York, 1848 — . 

Whittier: Laus Deo (Feb., 1865), 267. 
Tilton: The Great Bell Roland (April, 1861), 322. 
Lanier: Night and Day (Aug., 1884), 449; Clover 
Aug., 1876), 457; Sunrise (Dec, 1882), 470. 
Knickerbocker Magazine, New York, 1833-65. 
Bryant: The Antiquity of Freedom (Feb., 1842), 

186. 
Longfellow: A Psalm of Life (Oct., 1838), 367; 
Prelude to Voices of the Night (May, 1839), 
367; The Village Blacksmith (Nov., 1840), 368; 
The Skeleton in Armor (Jan., 1841), 370. 



Liberator. 

Whittier: Expostulation (Sept., 1834), 239; 
Massachusetts to Virginia (Jan., 1843), 243. 
Lippincott's Magazine, Philadelphia, 1868 — . 

Lanier: Corn (Feb., 1875), 449; Acknowledgment 
(Nov., 1876), 452; The Symphony (June, 1875), 
453; Sonnets of Columbus (June, 1876), 458; 
Heartstrong South and Headstrong North 
(June, 1876), 460; The Bee (Oct., 1877), 462. 
National Era. 

Whittier: Ichabod (May, 1850), 249. 
Whittier: Maud'MuUer (1854), 253. 
National Gazette, Philadelphia. 

Freneau: To Sir Toby (July, 1792), 107; To the 
Public (Oct., 1791), 113; To My Book (Aug., 
1792), 114. 
New England Galaxy. 

Holmes: The Music Grinders (1830), 422. 
New England Magazine (Buckingham's), Boston, 
1831-5. 
Holmes: My Aunt (Oct., 1831), 423; The Comet 
(April, 1832), 424; Daily Trials (May (?), 1833), 
425. 
New Orleans Delta. 

Stanton: The Heart of Louisiana (1861), 324. 
New York Evening Post. 

Drake: To Croaker, Junior (March, 1819), 148; 
The National Painting (March, 1819), 148; 
The Man Who Frets at Worldly Strife (March, 
1819), 148. 
Drake: The American Flag (May, 1819), 136. 
Halleck: To Mr. Simpson (March, 1819), 147. 
Halleck: ToE. Simpson, Esq. (March, 1819), 149. 
Drake: To Captain Seaman Weeks (April, 1819), 

149. 
Halleck and Drake: Abstract of the Surgeon- 
General's Report (April, 1819), 150. 
Drake: To XXXX, Esquire (April, 1819), 150. 
Halleck and Drake: To Mrs. Barnes (April, 

1819), 151. 
Halleck: An Address for the Opening of a New 

Theatre (Aug., 1821), 152. 
Bryant: Christmas in 1875 (Dec, 1875), 192. 
New York Ledger. 

Bryant: Our Country's Call (Nov., 1861), 189. 
New York Mirror. 

Bryant: Seventy-Six (May, 1835), 185. 
New York News ( ?) . 
Lucas: In the Land Where We Were Dreaming 
(1865), 341. 
New York Review, New York, 1837-42. 

Halleck: Marco Bozzaris ( , 1823), 158. 

Bryant: Hymn to Death (Oct., 1825), 176; The 
Death of the Flowers (Nov., 1825), 178; "I 
Cannot Forget with What Fervid Devotion" 
(Feb., 1826), 179; A Meditation on Rhode 
Island Coal (April, 1826), 180. 
New York Tribune. 

Poe: Annabel Lee (Oct., 1849), 238. 
Stedman: How Old Brown Took Harper's 
Ferry (Nov., 1859), 320. 
North American Review, Boston and New York, 
1815—. 
Bryant: Thanatopsis (Sept., 1817), 169; To a 
Waterfowl {—, 1815), 170. 
Opal. 

Longfellow: Birds of Passage (1847), 376. 



INDEX OF PERIODICAL PUBLICATION 



711 



Oxford Magazine (?). 

Miller: Kit Carson's Ride (1871 (?)), 558. 
Pennsylvania Journal. 

By a Lady: Virginia Banishing Tea (Sept., 
1774), 65. 

Anonymous: A Song (May, 1775), 66. 
Pennsylvania Packet. 

Anonymo'us: The Boston Tea Party (1773), 64. 
Hopkinson: Battle of the Kegs (March, 1778), 40. 
Paine: Liberty Tree (1775), 66. 
Poet Lore, Boston, 1889—. 

Hovey: From "Taliesin: A Masque" (1899), 576. 
Points Coupee. 

Randall: Maryland (April, 1861), 325. 
Putnam's Magazine, New York, 1853-7, 1868-70. 
Lowell: Without and Within (April, 1854), 298; 
Auf Wiedersehen (Dec, 1854), 299; and 
Palinode, 299. 
Bryant: Robert of Lincoln (June, 1855), 187. 
Quarterly Repository. 

Halleck: On the Death of Joseph Rodman 

Drake ( , 1820), 158. 

Richmond Enquirer. 

Ryan: The Sword of Robert Lee (1865 (?)), 341. 
Richmond Whig. 

Thompson: On to Richmond (1861), 328. 
Hayne: Beyond the Potomac (1862), 359. 
Rivington's Royal Gazette. 

Anonymous: The Epilogue (Oct., 1778), 73. 

Matthews (?): A Fable ( , 1778), 74. 

Anonymous: Yankee Doodle's Expedition to 

Rhode Island (Oct., 1778), 75. 
OdeU (?) : The Old Year and the New: A Proph- 
ecy (Jan., 1779), 77; The Congratulation (Nov., 
1779), 78. 
Stansbury: Lords of the Main (Feb., 1780). 
Russell's Magazine, Charleston, 1858-60. 
Timrod: Sonnet (Feb., 1859), 345. 



Sartain's Union Magazine, Philadelphia, 1847-52. 

Poe: The Bells (Nov., 1849), 236. 
Scott's Magazine. 

Lanier: Song of the Chattahoochee (1877), 461. 

Scribner's Magazine, New York, 1887 . 

Hovey: The Call of the Bugles (Sept., 1898), 571. 
Scribner's Monthly, New York, 1870-81. * 

Lanier: The Stirrup-Cup (May, 1877), 461; Un- 
der the Cedarcroft Chestnut (Jan., 1878), 462; 

A Song of the Future ( , 1878), 463. 

Southern Literary Messenger, Richmond, 1834-64. 
Poe: Sonnet to Zante (Jan., 1837), 231; Hymn 

( , 1835), 231; To F (July, 1837), 231. 

Talisman, New York, 1828-30. 
Halleck: Red Jacket (1828), 165. 
Bryant: The Past (1829), 182; The Evening 
Wind (1830), 183. 
Time-Piece. 
Freneau: Ode on the Frigate Constitution 
(Oct., 1797), 115. 
Token and Atlantic Souvenir, Boston, 1828-42. 

Holmes: A Portrait (1833), 425. 
Towne's Evening Post. 

Anonymous: The Congress (No. 435, 1776), 69. 
United States Literary Gazette, Boston, 1824-6. 
Bryant: Summer Wind (July, 1824), 171; Monu- 
ment Mountain (Sept., 1824), 171; Hymn to the 
North Star (Jan., 1825), 173; A Forest Hymn 
(April, 1825), 174. 
Longfellow: Woods in Winter (Feb., 1825), 366. • 
United States Magazine. 
Freneau: George the Third's Soliloquy (May, 
1779), 95. 
Western Messenger. 

Emerson: Good-Bye (April, 1839), 195; The 
Rhodora (July, 1839), 197; Each and All 
(Feb., 1839), 197; The Humble Bee (Feb., 
1839), 198. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Abraham Davenport (Whittier) 274 

Abraham Lincoln (Bryant) 192 

Abraham Lincoln (Stoddard) 549 

Abstract of the Surgeon-General's Report 

(Drake and Halleck) 150 

Acknowledgment (Lanier) ; 452 

Acrostic on William Paddy (Anon.) 15 

Address, An (Drake and Halleck) 152 

Address Dehvered at the Opening of the New 

Theatre at Richmond (Timrod) 353 

Address to the Old Year (Timrod) 355 

Adios (Miller) 566 

Advice to Amanda (Hopkinson) 35 

After All (Winter) 341 

All Here (Holmes) 447 

America Independent (Freneau) 94 

American Flag, The (Drake) 136 

American Liberty (Freneau) 91 

American Soldier, The (Freneau) 112 

American Times, The (Odell, "Querno ") 81 

Annabel Lee (Poe) 238 

Antiquity of Freedom, The (Bryant) 186 

Apology, The (Emerson) 198 

Arisen at Last (Whittier) 256 

Arnold's Departure (Freneau) 101 

Arrow and the Song, The (Longfellow) 375 

Arsenal at Springfield, The (Longfellow) 372 

Art (Emerson) 205 

As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario's Shore (Whit- 
man) , 497 

Aspects of the Pines (Hayne) 358 

At a Meeting of Friends (Holmes) 437 

At Our Golden Gate (Miller) 563 

At the End of Day (Hovey) 572 

Auf Wiedersehen (Lowell) 296 

Author to her Book, The (Bradstreet) 8 

Bacon's Epitaph, M&de by his Man 17 

Ballad, A (Freeman's Journal) 68 

Ballad of Nathan Hale, The (Anon.) 67 

Ballad of the Oyster-Man (Holmes) 421 

Barbara Frietchie (Whittier) 266 

Barefoot Boy, The (Whittier) 256 

Base of All Metaphysics, The (Whitman) 540 

Battle-field, The (Bryant) 185 

Battle Hymn, A (Boker) 331 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic (Howe) 332 

Battle Summer, The (Tuckerman) 323 

Beat ! Beat ! Drums ! (Whitman) 517 

Bee, The (Lanier) 462 

Bells, The (Poe) 236 

Beyond the Potomac (Hayne) 356 

Biglow Papers, The, First Series (Lowell) 283 

Biglow Papers, The, Second Series (Lowell) . . . 300 

Birds of Killingworth, The (Longfellow) 412 

Birds of Passage (Longfellow) 376 

Birthday Song, A (Odell) 71 

Blight (Emerson) 206 



Bold Hawthorne (Anon.) 70 

Boston Tea Party, The (Anon.) 64 

Boys, The (Holmes) 436 

Braddock's Fate and an Encitement to Re- 
venge (Tilden) 58 

Brahma (Emerson) 216 

Bridge, The (Longfellow) 373 

British Prison Ship, The (Freneau) 96 

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister CaroUne 

(Holmes) 440 

Brown of Ossawatomie (Whittier) 265 

Bryant's Seventieth Birthday (Holmes) 445 

Building of the Ship, The (Longfellow) 382 

Burial of the Minnisink (Longfellow) 366 

By the Pacific Ocean (Miller) 563 

Call of the Bugles, The (Hovey) 572 

Carol Closing Sixty-Nine, A (Whitman) 541 

Carolina (Timrod) 348 

Catch, A (Stoddard) 552 

Centenarian's Story, The (Whitman) 518 

Chambered Nautilus, The (Holmes) 432 

Changeling, The (LoweU) 282 

Character (Emerson) 207 

Charleston (Timrod) 349 

Children's Hour, The (Longfellow) 415 

Christmas (Timrod) 350 

Christmas Bells (Longfellow) 418 

Christmas in 187s (Bryant) 192 

City in the Sea, The (Poe) 228 

Claribel's Prayer (Anon.) 335 

Closing Scene, The (Read) 339 

Clover (Lanier) 457 

CoHseum, The (Poe) 230 

Columbia (Dwight) 123 

Columbus (Lowell) 279 

Columbus (Miller) 564 

Come Join Hand in Hand, Brave Americans 

All (Dickinson) 61 

Comet, The (Hohnes) 424 

Compensation (Emerson) 205 

Comrades (Hovey) 568 

Concord Hymn (Emerson) 198 

Congratulation, The (Odell) 78 

Congress Hall, N. Y. (Freneau) 112 

Congress, The (Towne's Evening Post) 69 

Connecticut (Halleck) 160 

Conqueror Worm, The (Poe) 232 

Contemplations (Bradstreet) 4 

Contentment (Holmes) 433 

Corn (Lanier) 449 

Cornwallis Burgovned (Anon.) 87 

Cotton Boll, The (Timrod) 351 

Country Life, The (Stoddard) 552 

Courtship of Miles Standish, The (Longfellow) 395 

Crisis, The (Whittier) 248 

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry (Whitman) 493 

Crossing the Plains (Miller) 561 

712 



INDEX OF TITLES 



713 



Ci-y to Battle, A (Sewall) 75 

Culprit Fay, The (Drake) 139 

Cumberland, The (Loiigfellaw) 416 

Daguerreotype, The (Moody) 583 

Daily Trials (Holmes) 425 

Dance, The (Anon.) 86 

Dante (Longfellow) 375 

Day is Done, The (Longfellow) 373 

Day of Doom, The (Wigglesworth) 18 

Days (Emerson) 216 

Deacon's Masterpiece, The (Holmes) 434 

Death Carol (Whitman) 535 

Death of Eve, The (Moody) 586 

Death of Wolfe, The (Anon.) 59 

Destruction of the Pequods, The (D wight) .... 118 

Dirge (Emerson) 207 

Dirge for a Soldier (Boker) 331 

Divan, The (Stoddard) 545 

Divina Commedia (Longfellow) 418 

Dixie (Pike) 323 

Double-Headed Snake of Newbury, The (Whit- 
tier) 264 

Dream-Land (Poe) 233 

Dream of the South Winds, A (Haync)'. 358 

Dream Within a Dream, A (Poe) 226 

Dresser, The (Whitman) 521 

Drum-Taps (Whitman) 516 

Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson, The 

(Lanier) 449 

Each and All (Emerson) 197 

Eldorado (Poe) 238 

England (Miller) 559 

Epigram (Freneau) 102 

Epilogue, The (Anon.) 73 

Epistle (Freneau) 114 

Eternal Goodness, The (Whittier) 268 

Ethiopia Saluting the Colors (Whitman) 539 

Ethnogenesis (Timrod) 346 

Etienne de la Boece (Emerson) 216 

Evangeline (Longfellow) 376 

Evening Wind, The (Bryant) 183 

Excelsior (Longfellow) 371 

Expostulation (Whittier) 239 

Fable (Emerson) 208 

Fable, A (Matthews) 75 

Fable for Critics, A (Lowell) 290 

Faith and Fate (Hovey) 576 

Fanny (Halleck) 154 

Farewell to Agassiz, A (Holmes) 446 

Farewell to Brother Jonathan (CaroHne) 320 

Farewell to Pope, A (Thompson) 327 

Farmer's Advice to the Villagers, The (Dwight) 121 

Fate of Tohn Burgovne, The (Anon.) 72 

Field of the Grounded Arms, The (Halleck) . . 167 

First-Day Thoughts (Whittier) 251 

First Snow-Fall, The (Lowell) 295 

Flight of Youth, The (Stoddard) 544 

Flower of Love Lies Bleeding, The (Stoddard) 553 

Forbearance (Emerson) 206 

Forest Hymn, A (Bryant) 174 

" For This True Nobleness I Seek in Vain " 

(Lowell) 275 

Fragments (Emerson) 222 

Friendship (Emerson) 205 

From the Almanack for 1733 (Ames) 30 

From the Almanack for 1738 (Ames) 31 



From the Almanack for 1743 (Ames) 32 

From the Almanack for 1751 (Ames) 33 

From the Poet (Emerson) 195 

Funeral Elegy upon the Death of the Truly 
Reverend Mr. John Cotton, Late Teacher of 
the Church of Christ at Boston, in New Eng- 
land, A (Norton) 15 

Garrison of Cape Ann, The (Whittier) . : 262 

George the Third's Soliloquy (Freneau) 95 

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun (Whitman) 523 
Glory Hallelujah ! or John Brown's Body 

(Hall) • 329 

Glory Hallelujah, or New John Brown Song 

(Anon.) 330 

Gloucester Moors (Moody) 580 

God Save the Nation ! (Tilton) 331 

Good-bye (Emerson) 195 

Good-Bye My Fancy ! (Whitman) 541 

Good Friday Night (Moody) 577 

Great Bell Roland, The (Tilton) 319 

Hamatreya (Emerson) 214 

Hampton Beach (Whittier) 242 

Hasty Pudding, The (Barlow) 130 

Haunted Palace, The (Poe) 232 

Hawthorne (Longfellow) 417 

Heart of Louisiana, The (Stanton) 321 

Heartstrong South and Headstrong North 

(Lanier) 460 

Holidays (Emerson) 205 

"How Are Songs Begot and Bred?" (Stoddard) 544 

How Love Looked for Hell (Lanier) 468 

How Old Brown Took Harper's Ferry (Sted- 

man) 317 

How Stands the Glass Around (Wolfe) 59 

Humble-Bee, The (Emerson) 198 

Huskers, The (Whittier) 246 

Hymn (Poe) 231 

Hymn of the City (Bryant) 183 

Hymn of Trust (Holmes) 438 

Hymn to Death (Bryant) 176 

Hymn to the North Star (Bryant) • 173 

"I Broke the Spell That Held Me Long" 

(Bryant) 179 

"I Cannot Forget with What Fervid Devo- 
tion " (Bryant) 179 

Ichabod (Whittier) 249 

I Hear America Singing (Whitman) 513 

I Hear It Was Charged Against Me (Whitman) 513 

Imogen (Stoddard) 545 

Incident in a Railroad Car, An (Lowell) 276 

Independence (Freeman's Journal) 68 

Indian Burying Ground, The (Freneau) 110 

In Harbor (Hayne) 365 

In the Land Where We Were Dreaming (Lucas) 338 

Invita Minerva (Lowell) 297 

Iron Grays, The (Halleck) 159 

I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing (Whit- 
man) 512 

Israfel (Poe) 228 

" I Would Not Have This Perfect Love of 

Ours " (Lowell) 275 

Journey from Patapsco in Maryland to Annap- 
olis, A (Lewis) 24 

June (Bryant) ■ 179 

Katie (Timrod) 345 

Killed at the Ford (Longfellow) 419 



714 



INDEX OF TITLES 



King is Cold, The (Stoddard) 552 

Kit Carson's Ride (Miller) 558 

Kossuth (Poe) 250 

Lady's Adieu to Her Tea-Table, A (Anon.) ... 65 

Last Leaf, The (Holmes) 423 

Last Taschastas, The (Miller) 556 

Last Walk in Autumn, The (Whittier) 259 

Latter-Day Warnings (Hohnes) 432 

Laus Deo ! (Whittier) 267 

Lenore (Poe) 229 

Letter (Whittier) 254 

Letters to Her Husband (Bradstreet) 8 

Let Us Be Happy as Long as We Can (Stans- 

bury) 87 

Lexington (Holmes) 431 

Liberty Pole Satirized, The (Anon.) 63 

Liberty Tree (Paine) 66 

Lifetime, A (Bryant) 193 

Lines Addressed to Messrs. Dwight and Bar- 
low (Trumbull) 49 

Literary Importation (Freneau) 109 

Little Giffen (Ticknor) 336 

Little While I Fain Would Linger Yet, A 

(Hayne) 364 

Lords of the Main (Stansbury) 84 

Louisbourg (Hopkinson) 37 

Love to the Church (Dwight) 124 

Man Who Frets at Worldly Strife, The (Drake 

and Halleck) 148 

Marching Through Georgia (Work) 337 

Marco Bozzaris (Halleck) 158 

Marshes of Glynn, The (Lanier) 465 

Marsh Song — At Sunset (Lanier) 467 

Maryland (Randall) 322 

Massachusetts to Virginia (Whittier) 243 

Maud MuUer (Whittier) 253 

May to April (Freneau) 110 

Meditation on Rhode Island Coal, A (Bryant) 180 
Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College 

(Holmes) 438 

Me Imperturbe (Whitman) . ^ 513 

Memories (Whittier) 242 

Menagerie, The (Moody) 581 

Merlin (Emerson) 213 

M'Fingal (Trumbull) 50 

Midnight Consultation, The (Freneau) 92 

Mocking-Bird, The (Hayne) 361 

Mocking Bird, The (Lanier) 461 

Monument Mountain (Bryant) 171 

Moral Bully, The (Holmes) 442 

Morning Hymn, A (Hopkinson) 36 

Music-Grinders, The (Holmes) 422 

Musician's Tale, The (Longfellow) 405 

Musketaquid (Emerson) 214 

My Aunt (Holmes) ". 423 

My Garden (Emerson) 221 

My Generous Heart Disdains (Hopkinson) 42 

My Lost Youth (Longfellow) 399 

" My Love, I Have No Fear That Thou 

Shouldst Die " (Lowell) 275 

Myself and Mine (Whitman) 515 

My Study (Hayne) 356 

National Painting, The (Drake and Halleck) . . 148 

News-Man's Address, A (Freneau) 106 

Newsman's Address, A (Freneau) 106 

Night and Day (Lanier) 449 



Non-Resistance (Holmes) 441 

O Captain ! My Captain ! (Whitman) 537 

Ode (Emerson) 211 

Ode (Freneau) 115 

Ode for the New Year (Odell) 83 

Ode in Time of Hesitation, An (Moody) 577 

Ode on Music (Hopkinson) 35 

Ode: Our City by the Sea (Simms) 333 

Ode Recited at the Harvard Commemoration 

(Lowell) 311 

O Fairest of the Rural Maids (Bryant) 170 

Old Clock on the Stairs, The (Longfellow) 374 

Old Ironsides (Holmes) 422 

Old Year and the New, The (Odell) 77 

" O Mother of a Mighty Race " (Byrant) 187 

On a Honey Bee (Freneau) 116 

On Board the '76 (Lowell) 310 

One's Self I Sing (Whitman) 537 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl (Holmes) 429 

On Retirement (Freneau) 90 

On the British Commercial Depredations 

(Freneau) 116 

On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin (Fre- 
neau) 112 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake (Hal- 
leck) 158 

On the Memorable Victory of Paul Jones (Fre- 
neau) -99 

On the Prospect of a Revolution in France 

(Freneau) Ill 

On " The Tenth Muse " (Ward) 13 

On to Richmond (Thompson) 325 

Original Version of the John Brown Song 

(Brownell) 328 

Origin of Didactic Poetry, The (Lowell) 297 

O Star of France ! (Whitman) 540 

Our Country's Call (Bryant) 189 

" Our Love Is Not a Fading Earthly Flower " 

(Lowell) 275 

Our Master (Whittier) 272 

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking (Whit- 
man) 500 

Palinode (Lowell) 296 

Panorama, The (Whittier) 257 

Parody Parodized, The (Anon.) 62 

Pasquinade, A (Stansbury) 85 

Past, The (Bryant) 182 

Pastoral Song, A (Stansbury) 72 

Paul Revere's Ride (Longfellow) 401 

Pentucket (Whittier) 241 

Picket-Guard, The (Beers) ' 320 

Pictures (Whittier) 250 

Pioneers ! O Pioneers ! (Whitman) 528 

Planting of the Apple-Tree, The (Bryant) .... 188 

" Poems of the Orient " (Stoddard) 545 

Poet, The (Bryant) 191 

Poetry (Holmes) 426 

Political Balance, The (Freneau) 103 

Political Ballads (Hopkinson) 39 

Political Litany, A (Freneau) 90 

Political Weather-Cock, The (Freneau) 115 

PoUtics (Emerson) 207 

Portrait, A (Holmes) 425 

Power of Fancy, The (Freneau) 89 

Prelude (Longfellow) 367 

Present Age, The (Freeman's Journal) 77 



INDEX OF TITLES 



715 



President Lincoln's Burial Hymn (Whitman) . . 532 

President's Proclamation, The (Proctor) 329 

Problem, The (Emerson) 199 

Progress of Balloons, The (Freneau) 108 

Progress of Dulness, The (Trumbull) 43 

Prologue (Freneau) 101 

Prologue, The (Bradstreet) 3 

Prophecy, A (Freneau) 102 

Psalm of Life, A (Longfellow) 367 

Queen Elizabeth (Bradstreet) 1 

Question? (Miller) 560 

"Qui Vive?" (Holmes) 427 

Raven, The (Poe) 233 

Red Jacket (Halleck) 165 

Remonstrance (Lanier) 467 

Resignation (Longfellow) 383 

Revenge of Hamish, The (Lanier) 463 

Rhodora, The (Emerson) . . : 197 

Rhymed Lesson, A (Holmes) 428 

Robert of Lincoln (Bryant) 187 

Romance (Poe) 227 

Romany Girl, The (Emerson) 216 

Saints Ascend to Heaven, The (Wigglesworth) 21 

Sandalphon (Longfellow) 400 

Seashore (Emerson) 217 

Seaweed (Longfellow) 375 

Sentence and Torment of the Condemned 

(Wigglesworth) 19 

Serenade (Longfellow) 372 

Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-One (Freneau) 113 

Seventy-Six (Bryant) 185 

Shakespeare (Holmes) 444 

She Came and Went (Lowell) 283 

Shepherd of King Admetus, The (Lowell) .... 276 

Sheridan's Ride (Read) 336 

Shoemakers, The (Whittier) 245 

Sicilian's Tale, The (Longfellow) 402 

"Simple Cobler of Aggawam, The" (Ward).. 11 

Singer in the Prison, The (Whitman) 538 

Sioux Chief's Daughter, The (Miller) 562 

Skeleton in Armor, The (Longfellow) 370 

Skipper Ireson's Ride (Poe) 257 

Sleeper, The (Poe) 229 

Snow-Bound (Whittier) ; 269 

Snow-Messengers, The (Hayne) 362 

Snow-Storm, The (Emerson) 204 

Song, A: Come, I will make the continent in- 
dissoluble (Whitman) 512 

Song, A: Hark ! 'tis Freedom that calls (Penn- 
sylvania Journal) 66 

Song, A: Ye Sons of St. George (Stansbury) ... 64 
Song: Beauty and merit now are join'd (Hop- 

kinson) 35 

Song: Drinke and be merry, merry, merry 

boyes, (Morton) 11 

Song: How sweet is the season (Odell) 69 

Song: O moonlight deep and tender (Lowell) . . 277 

Song, for a Venison Dinner (Stansbury) 86 

Song of Hiawatha, The (Longfellow) 383 

Song of Marion's Men (Bryant) 184 

Song of the Banner at Day-Break (Whitman) 524 

Song of the Broad-Axe (Whitman) 486 

Song of the Chattahoochee (Lanier) 461 

Song of the Exile, The (Anon.) 324 

Song of the Future, A (Lanier) 463 

Song of the Open Road (Whitman) 489 



Song of the South, A (Miller) 560 

Song of the Sower, The (Bryant) 189 

Songs from Sappho and Phaon (Miller) 564 

Sonnet: At last, beloved Nature ! (Timrod) ... 342 
Sonnet: I know not why, but all this weary day 

(Timrod) 345 

Sonnet: I scarcely grieve, O Nature ! (Timrod) 345 
Sonnet: Life ever seems as from its present site 

(Timrod) '. . . . . 345 

Sonnet — Poets (Hayne) 358 

Sonnets on Columbus (Lanier) 458 

Sonnet — To Science (Poe) 227 

Sonnet to Zante (Poe) 231 

Southern Cross, The (Tucker) 325 

Spring (Hovey) 569 

Spring (Timrod) 347 

Starting from Paumanok (Whitman) 505 

Statesman's Secret, The (Holmes) 443 

Stethoscope Song, The (Hohnes) 430 

Stirrup-Cup, The (Lanier) 461 

Stonewall Jackson's Way (Palmer) 328 

Storm and Calm (Timrod) 354 

Summer by the Lakeside (Whittier) 251 

Summer Wind (Bryant) 171 

Sun-Day Hymn, A (Holmes) 438 

Sunrise (Lanier) 470 

Sure Never Was Picture Drawn More to the 

Life (Virginia Gazette) 60 

Sweet South, The (Simms) 330 

Sword of Robert Lee, The (Ryan) 338 

Symphony, The (Lanier) 453 

"Taliesin: A Masque" (Hovey) 576 

Tamerlane (Poe) 224 

Telling the Bees (Whittier) 263 

Terminus (Emerson) 222 

Test, The (Emerson) 218 

Thanatopsis (Bryant) 169 

There Was a Child Went Forth (Whitman) ... 473 

Thine Eyes Still Shined (Emerson) 196 

"Though Thou Shouldst Live a Thousand 

Years " (Stoddard) 554 

Three Hundred Thousand More (Anon.) 332 

Threnodia on Samuel Stone (Bulkley) 16 

Threnody (Emerson) 208 

Titmouse, The (Emerson) 219 

To (Poe) 227 

To — (Poe) 226 

To a Caty-Did (Freneau) 117 

To a Celebrated Singer (Stoddard) 543 

To a Friend (Drake) 136 

To Arms, To Arms! My Jolly Grenadiers 

(Anon.) 58 

To a Waterfowl (Bryant) 170 

"To Bear What Is, To Be Resigned" (Stod- 
dard) '. 554 

To Canaan (Holmes) 441 

To Captain Seaman Weeks (Drake and Hal- 
leck) 149 

To Celia (Hopkinson) 38 

To Croaker, Junior (Drake and Halleck) 147, 

To E. Simpson, Esq. (Drake and Halleck) .... 149 

To F (Poe) 231 

To Helen (Poe) 227 

To her most Honoured Father (Bradstreet) ... 1 

To Mrs. Barnes (Drake and Halleck) 151 

To Mr. Simpson (Drake and Halleck) 147 



7i6 



INDEX OF TITLES 



To My Book (Freneau) 114 

To My Mother (Poe) 237 

To My Readers (Holmes) 440 

To One in Paradise (Poe) 230 

Tory Parody of the Above, A (Anon.) 61 

To Sir Toby (Freneau) 107 

To the Americans of the United States (Fre- 
neau) 115 

To the DandeHon (Lowell) 278 

To the Fringed Gentian (Bryant) 184 

To the Portrait of " A Lady " (Holmes) 421 

To the PubHc (Freneau) 113 

To WiUiam Lloyd Garrison (Whittier) 239 

To XXXX, Esquire (Drake and Halleck) 150 

Twenty-Second of December, The (Bryant).. . 182 

Twilight (Longfellow) 382 

Two Rivers (Emerson) 217 

Ulalume (Poe) 235 

Under the Cedarcroft Chestnut (Lanier) 462 

Under the Pine (Hayne) 361 

Unmanifest Destiny (Hovey) 575 

Unveiled (Hayne) 359 

Upon Mrs. Anna Bradstreet, Her Poems, &c. 

(Rogers) 13 

Upon the Author (B. W.) 15 

Valley of Unrest, The (Poe) 230 

Vanity of Human Wishes, The (Wigglesworth) 21 

Vates Patriae (Stoddard) 551 

Verses (Hopkinson) 36 

Vicksburg — A Ballad (Hayne) 357 

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night 

(Whitman) 521 

Village Blacksmith, The (Longfellow) 368 

Virginia Banishing Tea (Pennsylvania Journal) 65 

Vision of Columbus, The (Barlow) 125 

Vision of Poesy, A (Timrod) 342 

Vision of Sir Launfal, The (Lowell) 288 

Voiceless, The (Holmes) 435 

Voluntaries (Emerson) 220 

Volunteer Boys (Archer) 85 



Waiting, The (Whittier) 266 

Waldeinsamkeit (Emerson) 218 

Walt Whitman (Whitman) 474 

Wander Lovers, The (Hovey) 568 

War and Washington (Sewall) 7R 

Washers of the Shroud, The (Lowell) 298 

Wasp, The (Hopkinson) 39 

Weariness (Longfellow) 416 

Webster (Emerson) 197 

Wendell Phillips (Lowell) 278 

Westward Ho ! (Miller) 561 

" What Harmonious Is with Thee " (Stoddard) 553 
When Good Queen Elizabeth Governed the 

Realm (Stansbury) 65 

When I Heard the Leam'd Astronomer (Whit- 
man) 531 

When Johnny Comes Marching Home (Gil- 
more) 337 

Who's Ready (Proctor) 334 

Wild Honey Suckle, The (Freneau) 110 

Will and the Wing, The (Hayne) 356 

Wind Over the Chimney, The (Longfellow) . . . 417 

Witch's Whelp, The (Stoddard) ...."" 542 

With Antecedents (Whitman) 514 

Without and Within (Lowell) 295 

Without and Within (Stoddard) 547 

With Walker in Nicaragua (Miller) 555 

Woodnotes (Emerson) 200 

Woods in Winter (Longfellow) 366 

World-Soul, The (Emerson) 212 

Worship (Emerson) 218 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The (Longfellow) .... 369 

Written at Rome (Emerson) 196 

Written in Naples (Emerson) 196 

Yankee Doodle (Anon.) 73 

Yankee Doodle's Expedition to Rhode Island 

(Rivington's Gazette) 74 

Years of the Modern (Whitman) 531 

" Yellow Moon Looks Slantly Down, The " 

(Stoddard) 544 



I 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A beautiful and happy girl 242 

A carol closing sixty-nine — a resume — a repeti- 
tion, 541 

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's 

drouth and sand, 248 

A fairy ring, 353 

Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, 489 

A golden pallor of voluptuous light, 361 

Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit 

flown forever ! 229 

A hermit's house beside a stream, 90 

A little maid of Astrakan, 545 

A little while (my life is almost set !) 364 

All quiet along the Potomac, they say, 320 

Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too, .. . 196 

Along a river-side, I know not where, 298 

Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn, .... 542 

Although great Queen thou now in silence lye, 1 

Amanda, since thy lovely frame, 35 

Americans ! revenge your country's wrongs, . . 94 

A mile behind is Gloucester town, 580 

And after Winthrop's, Hooker's, Shepherd's 

herse, 15 

And here, sweet friend, I go my way, 566 

And now, gentlemen, 540 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 204 

An old man bending, I come, among new faces, 521 

Arise ! and see the glorious sun, 36 

Aroused and angry, 516 

Art thou not glad to close, 355 

A ruddy drop of manly blood, 205 

As a twig trembles, which a bird, 283 

As gallant ships as ever ocean stemm'd 116 

As I travell'd o'er the plain, 39 

As Jove the Olympian (who both I and you 

know, 103 

As near beauteous Boston lying, 64 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the dark- 
some gate 288 

Assist me, ye muses, (whose harps are in tune), 108 

As sunbeams stream through liberal space, ... 201 

A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, 425 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay 416 

At dawn they came to the stream Hiddekel, . . 586 

At last, beloved Nature ! I have met, 342 

At last the bird that sang so long, 577 

At length the wintry Horrors disappear, 24 

At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done, 37 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 158 

At midnight, in the month of June, 229 

At morn — at noon — at twilight dim, 231 

At our gate he groaneth, groaneth, 563 

Awake ! ye forms of verse divine 148 

A War broke out in former days, 41 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 422 

Beat ! beat ! drums ! — Blow ! bugles ! blow !. . 517 

Beauty and merit now are join'd, 35 



Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, 237 

Because I was content with these poor fields, . 214 

Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made, 577 

Begone, pernicious baneful tea 65 

Behind him lay the great Azores, 564 

Beloved ! amid the earnest woes, 231 

Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies, 58 

Between the dark and the daylight, 415 

Black shadows fall, 376 

Blessings on thee, little man, 256 

Borne on the wings of time another year, Ill 

Bring the good old bugle, boys, we'll sing an- 
other song, 337 

Bugles ! 572 

Bulkeley, Hunt. Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, 

Fhnt, .■ 214 

Burly, dozing, bumble-bee, 198 

But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying, .... . 154 

By a route obscure and lonely, 233 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 198 

Cahn as that second summer which precedes, . 349 
Captain Weeks, your right hand — though I 

never have seen it, 149 

Champion of those who groan beneath, 239 

Close his eyes; his work is done ! 331 

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, ; . . 123 

Columbus stands in the night alone, and, pass- 
ing grave, 458 

Come all you brave soldiers, both vahant and 

free, 68 

" Come hither, Harriet, pretty Miss, 43 

Come, I will make the continent indissoluble, 512 

Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all, 61 

Come, let us plant the apple-tree, 188 

Come, listen, good neighbors of every degree, . 63 

Come, lovely and soothing Death, 535 

Come, my tan-faced children, 528 

Come, shake your duU noddles, ye pumpkins 

and bawl, 61 

Come, shut up your Blackstone, and sparkle 

again, 150 

Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails, 328 

Come, swallow your bumpers, ye Tories, and 

roar, 62 

Comrades, pour the wine to-night 568 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's 

woven, 165 

Cornwallis led a country dance, 86 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days 216 

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the 

way, 278 

Dear Ma'am — we seldom take the pen, 151 

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight, 1 

Dear Sir, — your letter come to han', 308 

Dear uplands, Chester's favorable fields, 457 

Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare, 461 

Death, why so cruel? What! no other way, . 17 



717 



7i8 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



1 



Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms, 112 

Down the world with Mama ! 568 

Downward through the evening twilight, 383 

Drinke and be merry, merry, merry boyes, ... 11 

Enlightened as you were, you all must know, . 152 

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 110 

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, ... 231 

Fair were our visions ! Oh, they were as grand, 338 

Far away in the twilight time, 264 

Farewell the tea-board, with its gaudy equi- 
page, 65 

Farewell ! we must part; we have turned from 

the land, 320 

Father and I went down to camp, 73 

tlood-tide below me ! I watch you face to face, 493 

For sixty days and upwards, 357 

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, .... 338 

For this true nobleness I seek in vain, 275 

Friends, push round the bottle, and let us be 

drinking, 86 

From cold, east shore to warm west sea, 556 

From fall to spring, the russet acorn, 205 

From Lewis, Monsieur Gerard came 74 

From the hills of home forth looking, far be- 
neath the tent-Uke span, 262 

Gaily bedight, 238 

Gallants attend and hear a friend, 40 

Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his 

beams full-dazzling, 523 

Give me truths, 206 

Give me your hand, old Revolutionary, 518 

Give to barrows, trays and pans, 205 

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and 

woven, 465 

God help us ! Who's ready ? There's danger 

before ! 334 

God makes sech nights, all white an' stiU, 300 

God, to Thee we humbly bow, 331 

Gold and Iron are good, 207 

Good-bye my Fancy ! 541 

Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home, .... 195 

Great guardians of our freedom, we pursue, . . 91 

Great Nature's watchful Eye, the Sun, 32 

Great things have pass'd the last revolting 

year, 113 

Green be the turf above thee, 158 

Had Adam stood in Innocence till Now, 31 

Hark ! hark ! the sweet vibrating lyre, 35 

Hark ! 'tis Freedom that calls, come, patriots, 

awake ! 66 

Has the Marquis La Fayette, 85 

Has there any old ^tisF got mixed with the 

boys? r*^^'. 436 

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 206 
Hath not the morning dawned with added 

light? 346 

Hats off in the crowd, Present arms in the line ! 327 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 434 

Have you read in the Talmud of old, 400 

Hear the sledges with the bells, 236 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 419 

Helen, thy beauty is to me, 227 

Hence with the lover who sighs o'er his wine, . 85 

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, 186 

Here falls no light of sun nor stars, 576 

Here is the place; right over the hill, 263 



Here room and kingly silence keep, 563 

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough, .... 276 
He stood upon the world's broad threshold; 

wide, 278 

How are songs begot and bred ? 544 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day, ... 417 

However we wrangled with Britain awhile, . . . 109 

How grace this hallowed day? 350 

Ho ! workers of the old time styled, 245 

How stands the glass around ? 59 

How sweet is the season, the sky how serene, . 69 

How sweetly on the wood-girt town, 241 

How the mountains talked together, 446 

am the God Thor, 405 

broke the spell that held me long, 179 

cannot forget with what fervid devotion, .... 179 

cannot teU when first I saw her face 359 

celebrate myself, 474 

do not count the hours I spend, 218 

du believe in Freedom's cause, 287 

f ever two were one, then surely we, 8 

f I could put my woods in song, 221 

f the red slayer thinks he slays, 216 

f there exists a hell — the case is clear, 107 

gazed upon the glorious sky, 179 

had a Uttle daughter, 282 

have been every night, whether empty or 

crowded, 149 

hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, 513 

heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea, .... 217 

heard the bells on Christmas Day, 418 

hear it was charged against me that I sought 

to destroy institutions, 513 

hung my verses in the wind, 218 

know not why, but all this weary day, 345 

like a church; I like a cowl 199 

Hstened to the Phantom by Ontario's shore, 497 

11 fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave, 197 

love thy kingdom, Lord, 124 

love to start out arter night's begun, 301 

m a friend to your theatre, oft have I told you, 147 

met a little maid one day, 553 

mmortal Love, forever fuU, 272 

n a branch of willow hid, 117 

n a chariot of light from the regions of day, . 66 

n calm and cool and silence, once again, 251 

n Heaven a spirit doth dwell 228 

n May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 197 

n my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain, 470 

n spite of all the learned have said 110 

n the beguming God, 564 

n the days when my mother, the Earth, was 

yoimg, 560 

n the greenest of our valleys, 232 

n the old days (a custom laid aside, 274 

n yon small field, that dimly steals from sight, 118 

n youthful minds to wake the ardent flame, . . 125 

pity him, who, at no small expense, 114 

reached the middle of the mount, 207 

remember — why, yes ! God bless me ! and 

was it so long ago ? 437 

said in my heart, "I am sick of four walls and 

a ceiling, 569 

said I stood upon thy grave, 256 

sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped, . . 180 

saw him once before, 423 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



719 



I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing, 512 

I saw thee on thy bridal day, 226 

I scarcely grieve, O Nature ! at the lot, 345 

I serve you not, if you I follow, 216 

I shot an arrow into the air, 375 

I sit in the early twilight, 193 

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 378 

I think it is over, over, 365 

I thank you, Mr. President, you've kindly 

broke the ice; 438 

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk, 171 

It is done ! 267 

It is not what we say or sing, 447 

It is time to be old, 222 

It may be through some foreign grace, 345 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the 

river-side, 421 

It was late in mild October, and the long au- 
tumnal rain, 246 

It was many and many a year ago, 238 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 369 

It was the season, when through all the land, . 412 
It was three slim does and a ten-tined buck in 

the bracken lay, 463 

I've heard in old times that a sage used to say, 87 

I wait and watch: before my eyes, 266 

I walk'd and did a little Mole-hill view, 21 

I would not have this perfect love of ours, 275 

John Brown died on a scaffold for the slave, . . 329 
John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast 

Yankee farmer, 317 

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying 

day, 265 

John Brown's body hes a-mouldering in the 

grave, 330 

John Brown's body hes a-mould'ring in the 

grave, 329 

Joy to Great Congress, joy an hundred fold, . . 78 

Kind solace in a dying hour ! 224 

Last spring this summer may be autumn sty I'd, 16 
Last week — the Lord be praised for all His 

mercies, 254 

Lay down the axe; fling by the spade, 189 

Libera Nos, Domine. — Deliver us, O, 90 

Life ever seems as from its present site, 345 

Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, and 

o'er all, 250 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear, 401 

Lists all white and blue in the skies, 460 

Little I ask; my wants are few, 433 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked 

clown, 197 

Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne, 228 

Lord of all being! throned afar, 438 

Lo ! 'tis a gala night, 232 

Low and mournful be the strain, 220 

Madam, twice through the Muses Grove -I 

walkt 13 

Major General Scott, 325 

Maud MuUer on a summer's day, 253 

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature, . . . 513 

Men of this passing age ! — whose noble deeds, 115 

Mercury shew'd Apollo, Bartas Book, 13 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 187 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 

the Lord, 332 



My aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 423 

My coachman, in the moonlight there, 295 

My generous heart disdains, 42 

My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die, 275 

Myself and mine gymnastic ever, '. . . 515 

My task is done. The Showman and his show, 257 

Nay, blame me not; I might have spared, 440 

Not as when some great Captain falls, 549 

Not in the solitude, 183 

No trumpet-blast profaned, 192 

Not what we would, but what we must, 552 

Now I beheve Tradition, which doth call, .... 15 

Now warmer suns, once more bid nature smile, 36 

Now warm with ministerial ire, 50 

O Age that half believ'st thou haK believ'st, . . 452 

O a new song, a free song, 524 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is 

done, 537 

O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands, 259 

O'er the rough main with flowing sheet, 99 

O even-handed Nature ! we confess, 445 

O fairest of the rural maids ! 170 

Of all the ages ever known, 77 

Of all the rides since the birth of time, 257 

O fresh, how fresh and fair, 358 

O friends ! with whom my feet have trod, 268 

Often I think of the beautiful town, 399 

Oft have I dreamed of music such as thine, . . . 543 

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 418 

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart, . 176 

Oh ! here I am in the land of cotton, 324 

Oh ! let me weep, while o'er our land, 321 

Oh, say, can you see through the gloom and the 

storm, 325 

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 192 

Oh, there are times, 425 

Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone, 106 

Old John Brown lies a-mouldering in the grave, 328 

O little feet ! that such long years, 416 

O Love Divine, that stooped to share, 438 

O moonlight deep and tender, 277 

O mother of a mighty race, 187 

Once the head is gray, 552 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 185 

Once it smiled a silent dell, 230 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 

weak and weary, 233 

One's-self I sing — a simple, separate Person, . . 537 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 366 

Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine, 467 

Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle, 449 

O sight of shame, and pain, and dole ! 538 

O Star of France ! 540 

O the sweet South ! the sunny, sunny South ! . 330 

O Trade ! O Trade 1 would thou wert dead !; . 453 

Our band is few but true and tried, 184 

Our city by the sea, 333 

Our farce is now finished, your sport's at an 

end, 73 

Our fellow-countrymen in chains ! 239 

Our love is not a fading earthly flower, 275 

Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, 310 

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, 500 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 336 

Out of the hills of Habersham, 461 

Over the monstrous shambhng sea, 467 



720 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Perceiv'st thou not the Process of the Year, . . 33 

Perhaps too far in these considerate days, . . : 441 

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 367 

Pleased with the vision of a deathless name, . . 49 

Qui vive ? The Sentry's musket rings, 427 

Rake the embers, blow the coals, 552 

Rejoice, Americans, rejoice ! 75 

Right upward on the road of fame, 195 

Rise, rise, bright genius rise, 68 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, .... 402 

Romance, who loves to nod and sing, 227 

Room ! room to turn round in, to breathe and 

be free, 558 

Sail fast, sail fast, 403 

Says Satan to Jemmy, "I hold you a bet, 102 

Science ! true daughter of Old Time thou art ! 227 

See, the fire is sinking low, 417 

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling 

volume, 114 

She has gone, — she has left us in passion and 

pride, 440 

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, 431 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn, 249 

Some thunder on the heights of song, their race, 358 

Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide, ... 4 

Sometimes — could it be fancy ? — I have felt, . . 342 

Somewhat back from the village street, 374 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on 

his errand 395 

Southrons, hear your country call you ! 323 

Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 370 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou, 183 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air, . . 347 

Stars of the summer night ! 372 

Starting from fish-shape Paumanok, where I 

was born, 505 

Still her gray rocks tower above the sea, 160 

Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now, 296 

Still was the night. Serene & Bright, 18 

Strangers ! your eyes are on that valley fixed, 167 

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray, 461 

Sure never was a picture drawn more to life, . . 60 

Sweet are these kisses of the South, 354 

Take this kiss upon the brow ! 226 

Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning sky, . . 358 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 367 

Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut, . . . 581 

Thanks to the morning Ught, 212 

The apples are ripe in the orchard, 341 

The Bardling came where by a river grew, 296 

The blast from Freedom's Northern Hills, upon 

its Southern way, 243 

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see, 227 

The breezes went steadily through the tall 

pines, 67 

The Comet ! He is on his way, ■ . . . 424 

The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind, . . . 279 

The day is done, and the darkness, 373 

The day, with cold, gray feet, clung shivering 

to the hills, 335 

The despot treads thy sacred sands, 348 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 322 

The groves were God's first temples, 174 

The innocent, sweet Day is dead, 449 

The little gate was reached at last, 296 

The man who frets at worldly strife, 148 



The maples redden in the sim, 189 1 

The mountain and the squirrel, 208 1 

The night is dark, and the winter winds, 547 ! 

The pine-trees lift their dark, bewildered eyes, 362 S 

There are gains for all our losses, 544 ' 

There are three ways in which men take, 422 

There breathes no being but has some pre- 
tence, 426 

There came a Woman in the night, 551 

There came a youth upon the earth, 276 

There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, 

everyone, 290 

There is no escape by the river, 572 

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 383 

There was a child went forth every day, 473 

There was a young man in Boston town 430 

The sad and solemn night, 173 

The Saints behold with courage bold, 21 

The same majestic pine is lifted high, 361 

The shades of night were falling fast 371 

The skies they were ashen and sober, 235 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 295 

The South-wind brings, 208. 

The summer wanes, — her languid sighs now 

yield, 323 

The sun goes down, and with him takes, 216 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 242 

The sun set, but set not his hope, (Character) 207 

The sun set, but set not his hope, (Fragments) 222 

The sun that brief December day, 269 

The Surgeon-General by brevet, 150 

The twenty-second of August, 70 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 382 

The various horrors of these hulks to tell, .... 96 

The wings of Time are black and white, 205 

The yellow Moon looks slantly down, 544 

They slept on the fields which their valor had 

won ! 356 

Thine eyes still shined for me, though far, 196 

Think me not unkind and rude, 198 

This age is so fertile of mighty events, 113 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good 

old times, 429 

This is he, who, felled by foes, 218 

This is my world ! within these narrow walls, . 356 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, . . . 372 
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring 

pines and the hemlocks, 376 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, . . . 432 

This, then, is she, 583 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, '. 184 

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, 116 

Though loath to grieve, 211 

Though thou shouldst live a thousand years, . . 554 

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain, . . 8 

Thou, mother of brave men, of nations ! Thou, 559 

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State 1 382 

Thou unrelenting Past ! 182 

Thou wast all that to me, love, 230 

Thou who ordainest, for the land's salvation, . 331 

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild, 171 

Thou who wouldst wear the name, 191 

Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle, 284 

Thus launch'd at length upon the main, 115 

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood, .... 112 

Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise, 59 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



721 



Thy summer voice, Musketaquit, 217 

Thy trivial harp will never please, 213 

Time was when America hallow'd the morn, . . 71 

Time works a Change on all material Things, . 30 

'Tis strange that things upon the ground, 115 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night, ... 139 

To arms, to arms ! my jolly grenadiers ! 58 

To bear what is, to be resigned, 554 

Today the woods are trembling through and 

through, 449 

To have the will to soar, but not the wings, . . . 356 

To heal his heart of long-time pain, 468 

To him who in the love of Nature holds, 169 

To horse, my dear, and out into the night, . . . 576 

Toll, Roland, toU ! 319 

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, . . 3 

To what new fates, my country, far, 575 

Trim set in ancient sward, his manful bole, . . . 462 
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of 

gloom, 375 

'Twas morn, and yet it was not mom, 560 

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast, 562 

Type of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary, . . 230 

Type of two mighty continents ! — combining, . 250 
Twelve was the hour — congenial darkness 

reigned, 92 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 368 

Unknown to her the maids supphed, 545 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 266 

Up from the South, at break of day, 336 

Vain Britons, boast no longer with proud in- 
dignity, 76 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night, .... 521 

Wakeful, vagrant, restless, thing, 89 

Wars, cruel wars, and hostile Britain's rage, . . 101 

Weak-winged is song, 311 

Weapon, shapely, naked, wan ! 486 

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hun- 
dred thousand more, 332 

We are what we are made; each following day, 196 

We count the broken lyres that rest, 435 

Weep not dear wife, children, nor dear friends, 15 

Well, Miss, I wonder where you live, 421 

We read your little book of Orient Lays, 545 

We twine the wreath of honor, 159 

What great yoked brutes with briskets low, . . . 561 

What harmonious is with thee, 553 

What heroes from the woodland sprung, 185 

What mean these dreams, and hideous forms 

that rise, 95 

What strength ! what strife ! what rude unrest ! 561 

What tempests gloom'd the by-past year, .... 106 

What time I paced, at pleasant morn, 462 

What though last year be past and gone, 77 

When a certain great king, whose initial is G., 102 



When boots and shoes are torn up to the lefts, 11 

When British troops first landed here, 87 

When descends on the Atlantic, 375 

When Faction, in league with the treacherous 

Gaul, 84 

When Faction, pois'nous as the scorpion's 

sting, 81 

When Freedom from her mountain height, 136 

When good Queen Elizabeth govern'd the 

realm, 65 

When I heard the learn'd astronomer, 531 

When I sit down with thee at last alone, ...... 576 

When Jack the king's commander, 72 

When Johnny comes marching home again, . . . 337 

When legislators keep the law, 432 

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd, .... 532 

When rival nations first descried, 83 

When the pine tosses its cones, 200 

When war with his bellowing sound, 72 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 366 

When wise Minerva still was young, 297 

Where are you going, soldiers ? 441 

Where tender love men's hearts did move unto 

a sympathy, 19 

While I recline, 351 

Whilst Heav'n with kind propitious ray, 38 

White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep, 251 

Whither, midst falling dew, 170 

Who are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly 

human, 539 

Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm 

unknown, 444 

Who of all statesmen is his country's pride, . . . 443 

Wild was the day; the wintry sea, 182 

With antecedents, 514 

With eager step and wrinkled brow, 112 

With evil omens from the harbour sails, 101 

Within the sober realms of leafless trees, 339 

Without your showers, I breed no flowers, .... 110 

Wrapt in Aurelian filth and slime, 39 

Ye Alps audacious, through the heavens that 

rise, 130 

Years after, shelter'd from the sun, 555 

Years of the modern ! years of the unperform'd ! 531 

Ye children of my fondest care, 121 

Yes, dear Enchantress, — wandering far and 

long, 428 

Ye see mankind the same in every age, 75 

Yes, faint was my applause and cold my praise, 136 

Ye Sons of St. George, here assembled today, 64 

Ye Tories all rejoice and sing, 69 

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear, 442 
Your hand, my dear Junior ! we're all in a 

flame, 147 

You shall not be overbold, 219 







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